By evening, the storm had somewhat eased. Desperate for supplies, the property management had rallied the residents to clear the snow. No one resisted, nor did anyone utter the phrase "clear only what's in front of your own door." Ninety percent of them had exhausted their food; if they didn't make an effort, they'd soon starve in their own homes. This wasn't collective goodwill; it was survival instinct.
Miles, of course, had no intention of joining them. Not only did he not need supplies, but he knew he'd be an immediate target if he showed his face. The residents of Cloudcrest Manor hated him with a passion. Stepping outside now would be as good as suicide.
Miles wasn't the only one staying inside. Andrew huddled in his villa, a dwindling fire in the two braziers nearby. His fuel was almost gone, and the flames flickered feebly as his lackeys cleared the snow outside.
"Damn it!" Andrew muttered through a mouthful of cold chicken. "Tyler, you old fox, you'll pay for this!"
If it weren't for Tyler's interference, Andrew would already have half of Miles's stockpile. Now, he couldn't even bring himself to take a full bite of a chicken drumstick, worried about how long the dwindling supplies would last.
"And that bastard Miles," he muttered, glaring at his phone. "Let him bask in his luck now. Sooner or later, all of his supplies will be mine."
Yesterday, three hundred residents had tried to storm Miles's place but had returned empty-handed. They'd lost one, and many suffered frostbite. In this extreme cold, lacking medical care, the injured might as well have been dead.
For now, Miles was riding high. Even if he was still scared, his confidence had clearly grown, thanks to Tyler's failed siege. Andrew was livid. "Tyler, you idiot! Not only did you fail to take him down, but you made him cockier than ever! Completely useless!"
Just then, a message pinged in the group chat.
"Miles, everyone else is out shoveling. Why aren't you?" It was the loudmouthed woman from next door, the "Big Fat Lady."
The residents chuckled. It was obvious why Miles hadn't joined. They'd gladly see him dragged out and beaten to death. Now that people had already started dying, what difference would one more make?
Unexpectedly, Miles responded to her taunt with a voice message: "None of your business, you pig! You look like Pigsy's nanny, and you're probably twice his size! Did you eat mud to grow that fat?"
Miles usually got along fine with people, including those with a bit of extra weight, but this woman was a different story. When he'd first moved in, she had raised hell, blocking his contractors and refusing to let him remodel his place until he'd pulled every string he could. Then, when Ella had been around, she'd constantly whispered behind his back, calling him an idiot and saying Ella was nothing but trouble. Miles had no patience for her.
Furious, Big Fat Lady responded, "Who do you think you're talking to? Do you know who my father is?"
Miles laughed. "Well, it's not me, that's for sure. If I were your father, I'd probably have shaved twenty years off my life!"
The chat burst into laughter. Most people didn't care for the Big Fat Lady and couldn't resist joining in on the fun.
Enraged, she typed furiously: "You scum! My father's Dawson of Cloud Mountain Mining. When this storm lets up, you're dead!"
Miles grinned and shot back, "Oh, Dawson? What a fitting name. It's no wonder he raised such a lovely child as you…"
"Damn you, Miles! Just wait! I'll make sure you're finished when this is over!" she ranted, her anger boiling over in the chat.
Miles chuckled as he replied, "Oh, your parents are still alive, are they? Well, if they survive the month, tell them to come by, and I might just treat each of them to a roast duck."
The group chat went silent. After a moment, someone chimed in uneasily, "Miles, that's a bit too much. Joking about people's lives in times like these…"
"Yeah, I don't want to hear about anyone dying anymore."
"Me neither…"
The mood shifted, the humor giving way to somber reflection.
After a long pause, Big Fat Lady returned, "Miles, you ass! My phone's dying! Just wait until I can charge it again, and I'll deal with you!"
Miles nearly spit out his drink. A sly smile crossed his face as he typed, "Isn't the city rationing power to two hours a day? Do you...have a backup generator?"
With most of the city's power grid crippled, electricity was now a precious resource, rationed to two hours a day, and even then, only for low-power devices.
Big Fat Lady's response was hesitant: "I have a power bank."
Did she, though? Or was there a hidden generator fueling her needs? The prospect piqued everyone's curiosity. In a neighborhood filled with the wealthy, several houses had backup generators installed. Now, all eyes in the chat were on her.
Sensing the growing tension, Miles added fuel to the fire: "I remember hearing a humming noise next door recently. It must be your generator, right?"
"Shut up!" she snapped, but the silence in the chat grew even colder.
An eerie stillness followed, and Big Fat Lady felt a chill down her spine. She quickly added, "It's just a few power banks, okay? Besides, Miles, don't pretend you don't have a generator."
"Oh, I do," Miles replied bluntly, attaching a photo of his brightly lit living room.
The chat exploded.
"He has power!"
"How much diesel would it take to keep that up?"
"Oh my god, look at the temperature on his thermostat!"
In the picture, Miles had "accidentally" included his thermostat, clearly displaying a balmy 25°C. In weather where the outside temperature was nearly -50°C, and homes had plummeted to -30°C, this was unimaginable.
For most, his house was nothing less than paradise.