The tension in the air was suffocating. "Maybe we should check the 15th floor first ... " someone muttered. Go for the easy target—that was the unspoken rule now. "You're right," another man said, eyes lighting up. "Whoever lives up there hasn't stepped outside in weeks. They've gotta be sitting on a stockpile big enough to feed all of us." The crowd surged with sudden energy, like starving dogs catching a scent. Just minutes ago their voices were weak, hollow from days without food. Now, it was as if adrenaline alone had filled their stomachs. "Fifteenth floor! Get the food!" "No more starving tonight!" Even inside her apartment, Natalie could hear their shouts echoing up the stairwell.Her brow creased. These people weren't thinking straight anymore—they were desperate. Still, as long as they weren't storming her door, she couldn't care less. If they tried? She'd show them exactly why she was not to be messed with. In her past life, Natalie remembered this same mob heading for the 15th floor. She hadn't joined them back then—dragging Braxton and his sister out to scavenge instead. Partly because she still had a conscience and couldn't stomach ganging up on neighbors. Partly because she knew the math: one family's pantry could never feed an entire building. Better to take her chances in the wasteland than fight like vultures over scraps. When she came back that day with a few bags of pasta, the halls were eerily quiet again. Although she didn't know what had happened, the mother and son from the 15th floor didn't leave their apartment until the very end of the heat wave, and they walked out in perfect health. Clearly, the mob had failed. While Natalie drifted through her memories, the crowd had already reached the 15th floor. As expected, the steel security gate over the stairwell was locked. A few strong young men rushed forward with crowbars, wrenching it open after several loud pries. Owen was the first to step up to Unit 1501. Putting on a polite face, he knocked. "Hey there, we're your neighbors from downstairs." No answer. He knocked again. "Harold, are you home? I'm the building manager—I'd like to talk." A calm male voice answered from inside. "Sorry, it's not convenient to open the door. Whatever it is, just say it." Owen glanced back at the crowd.Everyone's hair was like straw, faces sunken, eyes burning with hunger. He cleared his throat. "Oh, uh ... Everyone's out of food. We were hoping to borrow a little from you." Harold's reply was firm. "Sorry, I can't help you. We don't have much left ourselves." Harold was a diehard prepper, a survivalist who knew all the rules of living through the end of the world: being soft gets you killed out here. He had no intention of sharing his stockpile. The crowd erupted at once. "You're lying! You and your mom haven't left that apartment once—your place must be loaded with food!" "Yeah! Why hide it? Take it out and share with everyone!" "You're cruel! You'd watch all of us starve to death!" The shouting grew louder, more furious, until people were shoving their way to the front and pounding hard on the door.Owen's eyes gleamed. He smoothly stepped back, letting the mob surge forward in anger. Then, a voice from inside roared, strong and sharp. "Get the hell out, you useless beggars! What am I, your damn babysitter? You want me to fry up shit for you too?" "Mom, watch your language," Owen muttered. "Watch my ass! They're at our damn door like dogs, and you want me to sit quiet?" The curses only made the crowd angrier. The men at the front started hammering the door harder, jamming tools into the lock. Suddenly, they all shrieked. A violent current of electricity shot through the metal, surging into their arms and shaking their whole bodies. "The door's wired!" someone shouted. The men at the front convulsed, twitching uncontrollably. A few others tried to drag them away, but as soon as they touched, the current spread and they went down too, jerking like puppets on strings. Braxton grabbed a wooden mop handle and shoved the convulsing men free. Only then did the shocks stop. The ones who'd been hit lay unconscious on the floor. For a moment, no one else dared to step forward. Then two middle-aged men came out of the crowd. "Our hammer handles are insulated! We can break the lock open!" They charged forward, pounding the door with heavy blows. Inside, Harold's mother, Ghania Dunn, snapped, "Goddammit! You morons really think I'm a pushover just 'cause I've been quiet? "Harold! Bring me the stuff!"A moment later, a small opening appeared in the door. "What the hell is that?" one of the hammermen muttered. Before he could react, a sharp arrow shot through the hole, piercing straight through his forearm. "AHHH!" He screamed, dropping his hammer onto his foot. "AHHHH!" The pain doubled him over as he clutched his foot while the arrow was buried deep in his arm. The others froze in shock—only for more arrows to whistle through the hole, one after another. The frontliners were struck down, bleeding and screaming, as chaos erupted in the stairwell.