When the group chat was flooded with angry messages and Linda refused to respond, the neighbors finally began to realize—they'd been played.
The chat exploded with colorful "greetings" directed at Linda, but she didn't care. The moment she decided to scam the neighbors, she'd already thrown shame out the window.
But now, someone else had set their sights on her stash of stolen supplies.
None other than the neighborhood thug—Mike Cruz.
Five days into the apocalypse, most people still had no real idea just how bad things were outside. It hadn't quite devolved into full-scale looting and murder—yet.
Mike Cruz, from what Ethan remembered in his last life, would later lead a group of thugs, robbing and even killing people for food. But at this point, he still hadn't reached that level of desperation. He wasn't a complete lunatic; he still had enough brain cells to play it smart.
Even after Ethan had shot his leg with a crossbow, Mike didn't dare storm Ethan's door without a solid plan.
But his supplies were running low. Guys like him never stockpiled. His fridge was filled with beer—now frozen solid. And beer didn't fill stomachs. Hell, it couldn't even be drunk anymore unless you smashed it open like an ice block.
So when Mike heard that Linda had been "collecting supplies for the community," he had an idea.
He didn't believe a single word of her noble intentions. But now that she had gathered some food from neighbors—under the pretense of redistribution—he had a legitimate excuse to make a move.
Even if the snow melted and things got exposed, Linda would be the one in the wrong. Perfect cover.
Mike grabbed his phone and called Linda.
At that moment, Linda was inside her apartment, happily nibbling on crackers with her grandson.
Instant noodles required boiling water, and they only had a few precious minutes of electricity each day to do that. Crackers were luxury now.
The phone rang, sharp and shrill.
"Nana, your phone's ringing!" Little Tommy pointed excitedly.
Linda let out a disdainful grunt. She figured it was another dumb neighbor calling to beg for food. She felt no guilt whatsoever—just pity for their stupidity.
But when she saw the caller ID, her face instantly paled.
Mike Cruz.
Her hands trembled as she picked up.
"H-Hello?"
Mike's voice oozed with menace:
"Linda, you've really outdone yourself, huh? Heard you gathered up everyone's food supply. Impressive."
Linda tensed up at the word supplies.
"As a neighborhood liaison," she coughed, "it's my duty to collect and manage supplies for the good of everyone."
Mike scoffed.
"Perfect. We're running low. Go ahead and send some over."
Linda froze. She hadn't expected a thug like him to come for her stash.
Never mind that she had stolen it all herself—she wasn't about to hand it over.
"I still need to, uh, do a proper inventory. Some folks haven't contributed yet, so I can't really… redistribute anything at the moment."
Mike's patience snapped.
"Don't play dumb with me, you old bag. You hoarded that shit for yourself, didn't you?"
"I'm giving you one chance—either hand it over nice and easy, or I'll come take it myself."
Linda's face drained of all color. She was panicking now. Her whole persona was built on bullying the weak—but against a guy like Mike, she had no clue what to do.
"You—you can't do that! I'm with the neighborhood committee! I warn you—don't do anything stupid!"
Mike laughed so hard it turned into a snarl.
"Neighborhood committee? Lady, you ain't shit."
"You don't give me what I want, I'll just take it. Simple."
He hung up.
Mike had gathered several of his goons in his apartment over the past few days.
Partly to conserve heat, partly because some of them were still sick from that cold-water ambush Ethan had pulled. And partly because Mike wasn't an idiot—he knew things were going downhill fast. Better to consolidate power early.
But a dozen thugs eat through supplies fast.
So now, Linda's stash became the perfect target.
Mike barked at his guys to suit up. Limping with a mop for a crutch, he led the crew—baseball bats, crowbars, and steel pipes in hand—straight to Linda's door.
Ethan saw the whole thing on his surveillance feed.
He was lounging on the couch, feet up on the table, munching chips while watching some old TV reruns.
"Well, well... now this is gonna be fun," he grinned.
He absolutely hated both of them, and now they were going to tear each other apart. He couldn't have scripted it better himself.
Then Ethan thought about the gullible neighbors who'd been conned by Linda. From his past life and his keen understanding of human nature, he knew they'd keep falling for it.
People always had that spark of misplaced hope, and years of Confucian obedience made them easy prey for so-called community leaders like Linda.
Layer by layer, she'd fleece them dry.
Ethan tapped his chin.
"I wonder what would happen if I streamed this into the group chat?"
He smirked wickedly.
"Let's find out."
He hit the record button.
Back at Linda's place, Mike and his crew started banging on the door.
The apartments in Bayview's middle-class complexes came with standard security doors—not military-grade ones like Ethan's.
And security doors were meant to stop burglars, not battering rams.
Linda's terrified face was caught clearly on camera. She was trying to pile furniture behind the door, but it was useless.
Those guys weren't amateurs. The lock was broken in under a minute with metal bats and crowbars.
Inside, her pathetic blockade—tables and couches—didn't stand a chance.
Watching through his monitor, Ethan sipped his cola and chuckled.
Linda's face was a mask of pure terror.
And the best part?
She absolutely deserved it.