"Hello—this is Zhang Yi. I want to book five hundred banquet tables. Any problem?" His voice is flat, businesslike.
The hotel manager nearly chokes. Five hundred tables? Not in a lifetime of weddings and corporate dinners had they seen an order this obscene. Still, money talks. "Mr. Zhang, that'll be over a million. We need a ¥200,000 deposit to hold the date."
"Send your account." Zhang doesn't hesitate. He transfers the two hundred thousand with the same calm he used to eat an entire Michelin meal. Click—done.
He hangs up and stares at the ceiling. Money will be useless in a month, but right now it buys choices. His pocket contains the crude truth: inheritance plus savings, about two million. Half of that's already gone juggling deposits and preps. It stings — but he smiles. Most people will wake up and find their cash is paper; he at least gets to use his.
There's another asset he hasn't touched: the apartment. One-twenty in a decent block in Tianhai's mid-ring. It's old, sure, but location claws value out of time — market price, roughly five million. Mortgage that, and the world's liquidity problem shrinks.
He drives to the bank with a purpose. On the way Fang Yuqing texts a bored emoji and: "So boring this weekend. Want to go out?" He glances once, thumbs a noncommittal reply, and tosses the phone aside. Priorities shift when the world ends.
At the bank the clerk barely looks up. Paperwork goes through like butter. Zhang signs, initials, stamps. The bank releases four million into his account — fast, mechanical, unquestioning. Mortgage loans are a different beast: predictable and predictable can be played.
He counts with the cold satisfaction of a man who's planning a siege. Five million in hand now — enough for walls and food and medicine. Not quite enough for weapons, though. Not quite enough for every contingency. He frowns, plotting. There's still a gap.
On the sidewalk a scruffy kid with a punk haircut steps in front of him, one step too close. "Hey, brother, bank being slow? Need cash?" The voice carries the sweet, oily sniff of trouble.
Zhang looks up. Loan sharks have a look: too much eagerness, too little patience. The kid's grin widens when he sees Zhang's suit. "Banks take ages. Rules and boxes and time. We do same-day. No fuss."
Zhang lets an expression of helplessness cross his face. A good actor always keeps their options warm. "Family business needs cash flow. Bank's dragging its feet."
That's all the bait the kid needs. He produces a card. Duoduo Financial Services. Hu Minghua — Business Manager. The script slides into place: friendly chat, coffee at a cheap office.
Curiosity and a pinch of necessity push Zhang to follow. The office is on the third floor of a run-down building pretending to be corporate. Hu leads him through a narrow reception and into a glass office where a man the size of a small bear leans back behind an overly large desk. Chen Xiong — the boss — wears an imported suit and a local menace.
"How much do you want, Mr. Zhang?" Chen's voice is casual but flat. No paperwork, no waiting. Everything here smells like quicksilver.
"Five million." Zhang answers before the thought finishes forming. The number hangs in the room like a dare.
Chen blinks. This is no small sum, even for them. Profit margins on usury are delicious, but risk matters. Hu smiles, too eager now. "We can do this. Interest is high. We do paperwork fast. You'll have cash soon."
Zhang nods and plays the part of the desperate man: fevered, grateful, earnest. "I'll pay back in three months. Name your price."
Chen's eyes crinkle. "High price. Very high. But we help those the banks won't move for. Bring collateral. We'll talk terms."
They walk him through the motions. The contract is coarse, the print merciless. Promise a guarantor, sign here, initial there. The numbers slide across the page like a ransom.
Inside, Zhang's plan runs on rails. He'll mortgage the apartment at the bank for legitimate funds — four million — and take Duoduo's offer for the extra. Between them, he'll have more than enough to finish renovations, stock medicine, and secure the toys he wants. Everything is legal enough to look legal. Everything is illegal enough to keep men like Chen interested.
He plays gratitude and desperation with the practiced indifference of a man who has learned how people behave at the edge. "Fine. High interest. Fine." He raises his voice on purpose, lets Chen feel the victory. "Just give me the money."
Hu slaps a business card down. "We're professionals. We help people from fire. You'll be fine."
When Zhang leaves, his throat tastes like iron. He doesn't sweat the interest; people in his neighborhood are going to starve, beg, break in. Interest is a problem for later. Right now he needs mobility, ammo for the long slow game.
Outside, he counts again in his head: banquet deposits, renovations, medicines, a stockpile of canned and frozen meat, tools for making a house a fortress. Weapons channels still fuzzy, but money greases doors.
He looks back at the office's dirty glass. The two men inside are smiling; they think they own a meal ticket. Zhang lets it sit with them.
Act one is almost done. He's got the room on the checklist: cash in hand, contracts signed, time bought. The rest will be logistics — thieves at warehouses, quiet nights hauling supplies into a pocket dimension — and a slow knot of revenge that tightens as the world goes cold.
He slides his phone back into his pocket and walks toward his car. The game has sharpened. The clock is ticking.