The aroma of freshly ground Colombian coffee beans drifted through the air, mixing with the savory scent of crispy bacon sizzling in the pan.
Alex stretched, his joints popping. He walked out of the bedroom, wrapped in a thick bathrobe, and stopped by the living room window.
[Indoor Temp: 25°C] [Outdoor Temp: -52°C]
The world outside was a white void. The wind had sculpted massive snowdrifts against the skyscrapers. And right there, fused to the ballistic glass, was "The Gecko."
The assassin was now a permanent fixture. His body was encased in a thick, jagged layer of ice, his hand still reaching out, his eyes wide open behind the frosted goggles. He looked like a grotesque gargoyle guarding the penthouse.
"Morning, sleeping beauty," Alex toasted the corpse with his coffee mug.
He took a sip. The bitterness of the coffee was perfect. But as he inhaled, a faint, foul odor cut through the aroma of breakfast. It was subtle, seeping in through the building's ventilation shafts before his military-grade filters scrubbed it.
Frozen sewage. The pipes in the lower floors had burst. The water had frozen, blocking the drains. Now, the waste was backing up, creating a literal shit-storm for the tenants below.
Alex chuckled and sat down on the sofa. He opened the Building Group Chat.
It was eerily quiet. Yesterday's rage and panic had been replaced by a lethargic silence. Hypothermia does that. It makes you tired. It makes you want to sleep.
He picked up his high-powered telescope and aimed it at the street below.
A group of five figures stumbled out of the lobby of Building 3. They were wrapped in layers of curtains, plastic trash bags, and rugs. They were heading towards the "Safe Zone"—the stadium three miles away.
"Fools," Alex whispered.
He watched. They didn't make it past the first intersection. The wind at street level was like a physical wall. One figure—a small one, maybe a child—slipped on the black ice. They didn't get up. The others hesitated. One bent down, tried to pull the fallen figure, then gave up. They turned and kept walking, leaving the body behind. Fifty meters later, another one fell.
Alex lowered the telescope. He didn't feel pity. He felt validated. "Gravity is harsh today."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound at his door was weak. No axes this time. No screaming. Just a pathetic, rhythmic tapping.
Alex walked to the intercom. The camera showed Johnson.
The "Rich Kid" looked ruined. His Gucci shirt was wrapped under a dirty duvet. His right hand—the one that had touched the electric grid—was wrapped in a bloody, pus-stained rag. His face was gray.
"Alex..." Johnson's voice was a croak. "I know you're there."
He fumbled in his pocket with his good hand and pulled out a watch. A Patek Philippe Nautilus. Rose gold. Market value: $200,000.
He slid it under the small gap at the bottom of the steel door (the only unsealed point, usually for mail).
"Take it," Johnson begged. "It's real. I have the papers. Just... give me a loaf of bread. Or a can of beans. Anything."
Alex looked at the watch lying on his doormat. In 2025, this watch could buy a house. Now? It was cold metal.
"I don't eat gears, Johnson," Alex said through the speaker.
"Please!" Johnson sobbed. "I'm dying! My hand... it's infected. I need antibiotics. I'll give you my car keys! My apartment deed!"
Alex smiled coldly. He walked to his storage shelf. He picked up a single, dry dog biscuit—the kind for large breeds.
He kicked the Patek Philippe back under the door gap. Then, he slid the dog biscuit out.
"Keep the watch," Alex said. "This is on the house. Chew slowly."
On the monitor, he saw Johnson stare at the dog biscuit. For a second, he looked insulted. Then, hunger took over. He grabbed the biscuit with his shaking hand and shoved it into his mouth, crunching frantically, tears freezing on his cheeks.
[System Log:] [Harvested Humiliation from Johnson: +60 EP]
"Pathetic," Alex muttered.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the hallway.
The microphone picked up a shrill scream. "No! Get away! Help!"
It was Madam Li.
Alex switched the camera angle. Madam Li was cornered near the stairwell. She was clutching her Pomeranian, "Snowball," tightly to her chest. The dog was barking weakly.
Standing in front of her was Neighbor 2304. Alex recognized him. A quiet, spectacled man who worked in IT. He usually looked harmless. Now, he was holding a claw hammer. His eyes weren't looking at Madam Li. They were locked on the dog.
"That dog..." The man's voice was trembling, but not from fear. From hunger. "It's fat. It's been eating... while my daughter is starving."
"Get back!" Madam Li screamed, backing up. "He's my baby! You can't touch him!"
"Your baby?" The man laughed, a broken, manic sound. "It's meat. It's five pounds of meat."
He stepped forward.
"Give me the dog, and I won't hurt you," the man said, raising the hammer.
"NO!" Madam Li turned to run.
CRUNCH.
The hammer didn't hit the dog. It hit Madam Li's shoulder. She shrieked and fell, dropping the dog. Snowball yelped and tried to scurry away, but the man was faster. He lunged, not at the woman, but at the animal.
THUD.
The barking stopped abruptly.
Alex watched the screen. The man picked up the limp white bundle. He didn't look at the screaming woman on the floor. He turned and ran back to his apartment, slamming the door.
Madam Li lay on the freezing concrete, clutching her shattered shoulder, wailing into the darkness. But nobody came out to help. Every door remained shut.
The social contract had officially expired. It wasn't about neighbors anymore. It was about the food chain.
Alex turned off the monitor. The scream was annoying.
"System," he said calmly. "Play Fly Me to the Moon by Frank Sinatra. Volume 80."
"Fly me to the moon... Let me play among the stars..."
The smooth jazz filled the penthouse, drowning out the sounds of weeping and the howling wind. Alex cut a piece of his bacon. It was perfectly crispy.
[End of Chapter 7]