Changing the locks cost Chu Yian 80 yuan, and she paid an extra 500 for a reinforced security door.
By the time the workers were done, night had already fallen.
She dragged the leftover construction debris downstairs to throw away, just as an ambulance screamed past on the road outside the residential complex.
Given the theme of this round's game, she instinctively took two steps back before quickly tossing the trash and hurrying upstairs.
The game would last 30 days, and it had clearly stated that the antiviral cure wouldn't be developed until day 20.
The safest strategy Chu Yian could come up with was to stay inside the rental apartment for the first 20 days, and only venture out once the cure became available.
Still, her stockpile of medicine wasn't enough—she'd need another trip to the pharmacy tomorrow.
As for today…
She'd been running around nonstop. Time to rest.
With no immediate threat of death looming over her, she was far more relaxed than she'd been during the first round.
Outside, the city lights glittered. Cars zipped by below. Apartment windows were glowing across the skyline.
Even the occasional wail of sirens couldn't break the illusion of peace and normalcy.
Day 2 of the game.
Chu Yian woke up early.
She boiled a quick bowl of noodles in the kitchen, ate, then masked up and headed out for supplies.
There was a pharmacy near her apartment, but she made a beeline for a larger chain store downtown instead.
The pharmacy had just opened at 8 a.m.
Chu Yian marched straight to the medicine aisle and began sweeping antibiotics and fever reducers off the shelves. The clerk just stood there, stunned.
"Hi," Chu Yian said, turning toward the staff. "Do you carry medical-grade protective gear?"
"Yes, yes, we do," the clerk said, nodding.
"A full kit includes a face shield, gloves, shoe covers, goggles, hazmat suit, and a mask. One set is 40 yuan. How many would you like?"
"Give me 50 sets."
Now that money wasn't a problem, she could afford to go all out.
"Uh… well, we only have 20 in stock."
"Then I'll take all 20."
She handed over the cash like a boss. That second medicine run cost her 2,200 yuan, and with yesterday's security upgrades included, she still had 12,578 yuan left.
Looking at the thick stack of cash in her bag, Chu Yian couldn't shake the strange sense of guilt for not spending it fast enough.
She took a cab back home to drop off the medicine and hazmat suits, then immediately went out again, determined to spend more. There had to be other essentials she'd missed.
A car!
That was her first thought—she could've used one in the last game to escape more easily.
But...
She didn't have a license.
And licenses didn't exist in the game, either.
Even though she could drive, technically, she'd be breaking the law and drawing attention. So, she scratched that idea.
Then she saw something better—a drone.
Yes! That could be perfect. If she ever got stuck inside, she could use the drone to scout the outside world safely.
She walked into the shop, looked around, and picked one priced at 2,000 yuan.
That left her with 10,578 yuan.
Still over ten grand to burn.
What now?
Chu Yian never thought she'd one day be stressing over how to spend money.
Just then, a rich, delicious aroma wafted through the air.
Hot pot.
Her mouth watered instantly.
Images of beef tripe, duck intestines, marbled brisket, ox lung, and chili oil danced in her mind.
Her legs started moving toward the restaurant on their own.
She had just stepped up to the entrance when a waiter greeted her:
"Welcome! Table for one?"
"Uh… I'm just passing by," she said quickly.
Reason triumphed over hunger.
This was a pandemic, after all.
There weren't obvious signs yet, but eating out now was asking for trouble.
No matter how delicious, it wasn't worth dying for.
She turned around to leave.
Just then, a violent coughing fit erupted from inside the restaurant.
The sound was hoarse, almost painful—like someone was coughing up their organs.
Chu Yian instinctively touched the mask on her face and looked inside.
A young man in a dress shirt sat at a nearby table, face flushed from coughing.
The woman across from him quickly passed him a glass of water. But after one sip, he retched—violently vomiting a yellowish mixture all over the girl.
Nearby diners looked horrified.
Not just them—Chu Yian felt nauseous too.
The man apologized frantically while coughing and wiping the girl down with tissues.
His arm was covered in tiny red dots—rash-like spots the size of sesame seeds.
Nope.
Too many people. Too dangerous. Time to leave.
She turned and walked out fast.
Just as she reached the curb and tried to flag down a taxi, another ambulance sped by.
Actually—there'd been several in the last half hour.
"Four ambulances in just thirty minutes?" a woman next to her muttered.
She was an older lady with a big perm, speaking to her friend. "What, is calling an ambulance free now or something?"
The other woman, in a floral dress, shook her head.
"My daughter works at a hospital. She didn't come home from her night shift."
"She said something happened at Da'an Airport."
Chu Yian's ears perked up.
"What happened?" the woman with the perm asked.
"They brought in a critical patient from the airport last night," the woman in the floral dress replied. "They couldn't save him. Then two more showed up—vomiting, covered in rashes.
Now they're saying it might be a new flu or something."
"They've already shut down Da'an Airport this morning for disinfection. Might even quarantine the whole place if it gets worse."
Da'an Airport… wasn't that where she started this game?
Chu Yian was suddenly very, very glad she'd left as fast as she had.
And those symptoms—rashes and vomiting—that guy in the hot pot restaurant had them too.
Clearly, the virus was no longer contained.
Thank god she didn't give in to her cravings.
As she was processing all this, a taxi pulled up beside her.
She raised her hand… then stopped.
"No, thanks. I'll walk," she said, shaking her head at the driver.
If the infection had already begun, then taxis—driven by people in constant contact with random strangers—were practically infection machines on wheels.
As she stood there watching the flow of traffic, people zipped by on electric scooters and shared bikes.
That's when a new idea struck her.
Thirty minutes later, she walked into a shop that specialized in electric vehicles.
There, she spotted the perfect ride—a type of enclosed four-wheeled mini-electric car affectionately known as "old folks' cruisers."
Fully enclosed. Private.
And incredibly budget-friendly.
Just 8,888 yuan.