Yang Sizhu felt like she was about to go insane.

Yi Xiaohui was dead, and Yi Jiancong seemed to have gone mad. He stopped going out to work and stayed at home every day, his eyes gloomy and unsettling.

Yang Sizhu had seen Yi Jiancong standing by the window, expressionless, more than once.

Many times, she felt that his gaze toward her was like that of a ghost crawling out from the underworld—creepy and disturbing beyond words.

She didn’t even dare look at Yi Jiancong in his deranged state.

That night. That night—

Yang Sizhu had been woken up by the cold. On a strange impulse, she pushed open the crack in Yi Xiaohui’s bedroom door.

At first, she really only wanted to take a look.

Yi Xiaohui’s bed was covered with three quilts.

Yang Sizhu knew that Yi Xiaohui not only had three quilts on top, but also two mattress pads underneath.

Yi Xiaohui was spoiled—she thought one quilt wasn’t soft or warm enough.

But what about her? She wanted to sleep with Yi Xiaohui, but Yi Xiaohui refused.

Even during the time when Yi Jiancong was eagerly hoping Yang Rong would find him a job and was at his most obsequious, he only smiled apologetically at Yang Sizhu. He never forced his daughter to compromise.

Why?

She was freezing, about to die from the cold, so why wouldn’t Yi Xiaohui share her blankets?

Yang Sizhu stood in the shadows, her eyes flickering with a strange light.

Yi Xiaohui had brought this upon herself.

Why couldn’t she be kinder? Why couldn’t she treat her better?

Yang Sizhu quietly walked over and opened the window.

Once the window was open, she returned to the living room. The wind blowing in made the room even colder than before. Yang Sizhu wrapped herself tightly in a blanket, her heart pounding with excitement.

She didn’t sleep most of the night. Right before dawn, she went back and closed the window.

There were rustling sounds from the bed. Yang Sizhu, afraid of waking Yi Xiaohui, didn’t dare stay in the bedroom and left in a hurry.

She only wanted Yi Xiaohui to experience the same cold she had.

Yi Xiaohui couldn’t endure it—that was her own fault.

After Yi Xiaohui died, all those extra quilts became useless, and of course, Yang Rong’s family took them.

At first, Yang Sizhu had been secretly pleased.

But Yi Jiancong had gone mad.

Once, Yang Sizhu woke up in the middle of the night and saw Yi Jiancong in the kitchen sharpening a blade.

It wasn’t a kitchen knife or a fruit knife—when Yi Xiaohui got sick, Yi Jiancong had already traded those for contribution points.

What he was sharpening was a thin piece of steel he had dismantled from furniture.

Yang Sizhu, already feeling guilty, was terrified by the sight.

“Dad, can we move somewhere else?” she asked Yang Rong.

Yang Rong glared at her. “And where do you think we’d go?”

Yang Sizhu wanted to say they should go to Yu Xifeng’s place. Yu Xifeng was his daughter, after all. If she didn’t give in to kindness, then force her—why not beat her into submission?

Ever since she suspected that Yu Xifeng, like herself, had also had a prophetic dream, Yang Sizhu had felt a surge of jealousy rising in her chest.

She had always wanted a chance to test Yu Xifeng.

But Yang Silong was a coward—whenever she brought it up, he’d just shake his head like a rattle-drum.

Yang Rong was the same. He let Yu Xifeng walk all over him, living a better life than the rest of them, and didn’t do a damn thing about it.

What kind of father was that?

So Yang Sizhu placed her hopes in her mother.

She hesitantly told Xu Qingrou about the dream. Xu Qingrou asked her to describe every detail from beginning to end.

“You said it was snowing outside, and you, me, and Longlong were sharing a watermelon,” Xu Qingrou said patiently. “It started snowing at the end of February. Where would we get watermelon at that time?”

Yang Sizhu was stunned. Right—where would a watermelon come from in late February?

And it wasn’t just the watermelon—there were also fresh sugar mandarins and bright red, crispy peaches.

Yang Sizhu hadn’t thought much about those details, but Xu Qingrou’s words triggered her memory.

She tried hard to recall—those things seemed to have just appeared in her hands out of nowhere.

The more she thought about it, the more hollow she felt inside.

“In your dream, were we also living at Yi Jiancong’s place?” Xu Qingrou asked.

Yang Sizhu said firmly, “No. In the dream, we were living in Yu Xifeng’s apartment. Life was much better than now. But later, it seemed like we moved away—to a concrete plaza. There were a lot of people there, and it smelled terrible.”

“We were doing fine—why would we move?” Xu Qingrou didn’t take Yang Sizhu’s absurd dream seriously.

It was ridiculous.

Yang Sizhu thought about it but couldn’t explain.

Dreams weren’t always clear—most of the time, they were just a hazy feeling.

Things that felt normal in the dream seemed strange after waking up.

Why did that peach appear in her hand out of nowhere?

While Yang Sizhu was still pondering, she looked up and saw Yi Jiancong staring at her.

She shivered.

She went into the bathroom, and when she came out, Yi Jiancong was sitting on the couch, his head slowly turning to lock eyes with her again.

Yang Sizhu was on the verge of breaking down.

…

Yu Xifeng took three seconds to consider what clothes to wear to Zheng Weiyang’s banquet.

Aside from her cold-weather suit and protective gear, the rest of her clothes were all pretty much the same—plain and simple.

Considering Zheng Weiyang wore a suit yesterday, she picked a white coat with a subtle pattern.

The banquet wasn’t held at the Zheng family residence—everyone’s homes were cramped and didn’t have large venues.

Zheng Weiyang had borrowed a few meeting rooms.

When she walked in, she saw tables laid with food—porridge made from white rice, small plates of pastries, and every guest received a stick of malt candy.

Before the catastrophe, this kind of gathering was ordinary. After the catastrophe, it was rare.

Many people crowded around the food carts, loudly praising Zheng Weiyang’s wealth and generosity.

Zheng Weiyang smiled as he watched. Whether his guests were well-dressed or shabby, he remained courteous and graceful.

Yu Xifeng carefully observed the guests.

Anyone who could be invited by Zheng Weiyang looked noticeably better—both in complexion and clothing—than the average survivor.

Yu Xifeng blended into the crowd, eating and drinking along with them.

She was already here, after all.

“Look at them—like pigs.”

Yu Xifeng looked up. The speaker was a girl with a pretty face, wearing a warm yellow chiffon dress, holding onto a man’s arm with a proud expression.

A familiar face.

The man was Zheng Weiyang’s son, Zheng Chengfan.

Behind them trailed a small entourage, treating them like stars at the center of attention.

Laughter rang out.

Some people awkwardly withdrew their hands from the food.

Yu Xifeng, unfazed, calmly ate a pastry and picked up a cup of milk tea.

It was made with low-quality powder and didn’t taste very good.

She took a sip and frowned slightly. The tea and milk she brewed herself was far richer in flavor.

But Yu Xifeng didn’t waste food.

Her calm and composed demeanor, despite her plain clothing, stood out in a room full of anger and discomfort.

“She’s kind of pretty,” someone behind Zheng Chengfan said.

Zheng Chengfan stared at Yu Xifeng, and his expression immediately darkened.