Ethan had been getting all kinds of messages from the women in the building.
Most of them? Just sad little sob stories dressed up as "emotional essays." Not even worth a reply.
Of course, there were the bold ones—those who cut straight to the chase and sent him nudes.
He glanced through a few.
Nothing impressive.
Way too confident, nowhere near hot enough. A couple looked decent, but most were average, if not outright plain. And unlike those TikTok streamers who trained hard to sway their hips just right, these women had zero skill in seduction.
Trying to bait a man like him with this kind of material?
Please.
The messages from the male neighbors were even dumber.
Some called him "bro" or "big brother," trying to weasel favors through fake camaraderie. Others—old men, mostly—tried guilt-tripping him, begging him to "think of the community."
The most disgusting?
One guy made a "special" request.
Ethan didn't even want to talk about that one.
After scrolling for a bit, he lost interest.
He propped his phone on a stand and lay back on the couch with a glass of wine in hand and a plate of foie gras on the table.
Outside the window, the snow kept falling.
It had been half a month since the storm began. According to his memory, once this blizzard hit the one-month mark, everything below the fourth floor would be buried.
And there was no sign it was letting up.
Not that he needed to go anywhere.
Let the world rot. He was good.
Still... being stuck inside for so long was starting to wear on him.
"Maybe I should take a trip once enough of these parasites are dead," he mused.
Then he remembered—he had snowmobiles in his storage space.
Brand-new, meant for delivery to a snow resort in the next city over. Now? Perfect for navigating the ten-meter snowdrifts piling up outside.
"Not now," Ethan muttered, "but once it's safe, sure."
He had a full set of military-grade cold weather gear, too. Even minus seventy degrees Fahrenheit wouldn't faze him.
Flipping through his inbox again, Ethan suddenly noticed a message that stood out.
It wasn't begging. It wasn't flirty. And it sure as hell wasn't a nude.
"Mr. Cross, our food and medical supplies are nearly exhausted. I'd like to request a trade. In exchange, I can offer professional medical support moving forward."
Dr. Chloe?
Ethan instantly recalled her face.
Dr. Chloe was a physician from Bayview City First General Hospital. Twenty-six years old. Tall—at least five-foot-nine. Graceful posture. Long legs. And most notably, a stunning figure with D-cup curves hidden beneath her winter coat.
She wasn't flirty. Wasn't desperate. Just cool, calm, and rational.
A rare trait these days.
"Now this," Ethan thought, "is someone who knows what she's worth."
In the apocalypse, only people with real value had a right to survive.
And Chloe?
She brought something even more useful than food: medical expertise.
He had plenty of antibiotics and medicine, sure. But Ethan wasn't arrogant enough to think he could handle every illness or wound alone. A trained doctor was worth her weight in gold.
Especially someone from Bayview's best hospital.
Even better, Ethan knew she had integrity.
In his last life, Chloe died after giving her last meal to a neighbor and refusing to join a raid party. Maybe she was naive, or maybe she was just that kind. Either way, she'd shone with rare humanity.
Leaning back, Ethan adjusted himself slightly and rested his hand on his thigh, the other propping up his chin.
"Wouldn't be so bad to have her around... taking care of me—and my, uh, other needs," he murmured.
He was a young, healthy man. No shame in admitting certain urges.
And in this new world, there was no law, no restraint. Just survival, instinct, and opportunity.
He chuckled darkly.
"Tempting. Real tempting," he muttered. "But... nah."
Staring up at the ceiling, he sighed.
"I'm not suicidal."
No matter how perfect she seemed, he wasn't about to risk everything by letting anyone in. Not unless he had total control.
There'd be other doctors. Other women. He had time—and the best survival setup in the whole city.
He tapped out a response.
"I'm in good health. Don't need a doctor for now. I do have medicine and more food than I can eat."
"But if you want to trade, bring me something useful. No charity."
Ethan Cross didn't do handouts.
After a long pause, Chloe replied.
"...Consider it an advance payment for future consultations. I… I'm out of options."
Her tone carried a trace of shame—and desperation.
Clearly, she wouldn't have sent this message unless things were really bad.
Ethan rubbed his chin.
Interesting.
He replied:
"Alright. I'll give you food and medicine. But in return, I need something from you."
"What?"
"My neighbors are going to make a move. When you hear what they're planning, tell me."
Ethan had no doubt they were plotting to raid him.
He wasn't worried.
He'd spent a fortune building this fortress and handpicked every feature himself.
His apartment might not have tank-grade defenses, but for starving, half-frozen civilians?
They'd have better luck chewing through steel.
Still, having a mole inside their little rebellion? Even better.