Andrew had ruled the streets of Chicago for years, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. But even he, hardened as he was, felt a chill facing over a thousand desperate residents.
These people were no longer the cultured elites they once were. Days of hunger and despair had stripped away all pretense of civility, leaving only feral desperation. Andrew understood the peril; he knew that one drop of blood would send these ravenous wolves into a frenzy, and he'd be torn apart before he could reload.
But the temptation of the supplies was overwhelming, especially when he spotted two packs of premium cigarettes among the hoard. Weeks without a smoke had left him aching; at that moment, the sight of those cigarettes felt closer than family.
Resolving to take his chances, Andrew lifted his gun, pointing it at the lead resident. "One more step, and I'll blow your head off!"
In his years on the streets, he'd learned that to break the crowd, you start with the leader. Intimidate him, and the rest would scatter.
But Andrew miscalculated. Hunger had driven this man past fear. "Go ahead, you only have one gun—let's see how many you can take down!"
Bang!
Andrew fired without hesitation, taking the man down instantly. "Damn fool! You had to push me!"
Shock rippled through the crowd. Most froze, others took a step back, yet more held their ground, their rage boiling over.
"Who else?" Andrew sneered.
Bang!
Another shot, another life extinguished. Andrew knew this was now a fight for survival; only brutality would control them.
After two gunshots, the crowd wavered, nerves fraying. Sensing their hesitation, Miles decided to stoke the flames further.
"Just so everyone knows," he announced from above, "this is the last time I'm sharing my supplies!"
That was all it took. Driven mad by desperation, the crowd surged forward once more.
Miles, you devil!
Andrew saw through it at last. This was never about sharing. Miles had orchestrated the whole thing, pitting him against these starving people to watch them tear each other apart.
"Get them!" someone shouted.
In an instant, hundreds swarmed over Andrew and his men, a storm of fists and fury that drowned even the sound of gunfire. Shouts echoed through the air, and in that crush of bodies, there was no room for mercy—only raw survival.
Watching from his vantage, Ryan felt a chill. He recalled Miles's words: "A starving man becomes a beast."
It was the brutal truth.
Miles, too, was struck by the savagery below. In his past life, he hadn't had these stockpiles or this vantage. He had only experienced the terror firsthand. Now, seeing it unfold beneath him, he was more grateful than ever for his foresight and the fortress he had built around himself. Without it, he'd have shared Andrew's fate.
The mob's frenzy continued for hours. Finally, as the cold became unbearable, they retreated, leaving a field strewn with bodies and faint, agonized cries.
Among the injured was Andrew, his legs trampled and broken, screaming in agony. Yet even then, he clutched his gun, dragging himself along with the help of a few surviving men.
"Luck's on your side, Andrew," Miles muttered, watching from his window. "But I'll be waiting to see just how lucky you are."
Unbothered by the grim scene below, Miles retreated, retrieving a roast duck, a chilled beer, and a plate of fried peanuts. As he settled in for his meal, he thought back to the days before the disaster, when he had devoured every supply in sight, as if anticipating this nightmare.
Just then, a figure appeared at his gate—a woman, bundled in thick layers, limping with the aid of a mop handle. It was Ella, and the sight of the bodies and blood-soaked snow seemed to paralyze her.
Finally, she screamed, pounding on the door. "Miles! Miles! Open up! It's Ella—please, open the door!"
Inside, Miles paused, amused. "Unbelievable… these women are made of steel. That's at least five kilometers she hiked in this blizzard, and she made it."
He walked to the window, and as Ella caught sight of him, her eyes latched onto the duck in his hand. She swallowed hard, her gaze flitting between the feast and the wreckage around her.
Heaven.
Hell.
Separated by only a wall, yet worlds apart.
"Let me in, Miles!" she begged. "I made it here—please, let me in."
Miles shook his head slowly.
Ella's face fell. "What… what are you saying?"
He took up the intercom by the door. "Ella, you saw what's outside. Those people died trying to steal food. It was a bloodbath out there…"
He made a show of shuddering. "If I open this door, the rest will flood in, and I can't risk that."
She could see people moving in the nearby homes, watching Miles's house with barely concealed hunger. All they needed was an opportunity.
"But… but you promised!" Ella's voice cracked. She sank to the ground, too exhausted to hold back her despair. She had trudged through waist-deep snow, hoping against hope for salvation.
Miles's face remained impassive. "Maybe try your luck with someone else? Lots of homes here. Tell you what—I'll toss you a couple of cookies I haven't touched. That should help."
With that, he tossed two packages through a small opening and closed the window shutters, shutting out the cold and Ella's cries.
Satisfied, he returned to his seat, smiling at the thought of her anguish. This was only the beginning.
Clutching the cookies, Ella staggered away from the house, her gaze simmering with hatred.