Chang's Restaurant was located in a Serian neighborhood in Jinshui's old city. Chen Li had visited many times before, but this was his first time since the pandemic hit.

For him, this visit felt completely different from his first time entering the neighborhood. His nose still caught that indescribable mixture of smells, but the aroma of cooking had faded, replaced by the stench of rotting meat from refrigerated trucks parked along the streets. His ears still registered the usual cacophony, but the vendors' hawking had given way to more sirens and whistles. Driving through, he still saw homeless people and addicts everywhere, but the community now had more homeless huddled in blankets against walls, and no fewer public drug users contorting into those grotesque "triple-fold" zombie poses.

April had brought warmer weather, but the spring wind still bit at the face, especially toward evening as it picked up. All anyone wanted was to bundle up and hurry home. Outside Chang's Restaurant, a makeshift plastic tarp shelter had been erected, flapping loudly in the wind, threatening to carry away the roof and everyone under it.

A long line stretched from the shelter—middle-aged men in threadbare down jackets, young men and women in clean clothes, shuffling elderly, children with faces chapped red from cold, even a mother pushing a stroller. The line wound from one end of the street to the other, out of sight.

Under the shelter, Chang Baichuan's tall, slightly stooped figure stood behind a large bucket, ladle in one hand, bowl in the other, chanting: "One bowl of spicy soup per person, one flatbread free. Don't waste it, don't take more than one—so everyone gets some."

Beside him stood Ding Dejin, silent, guarding a foam cooler, handing out bread in plastic bags. Even though Chang had repeated that each person could take only one portion, some lingered, pleading: "There's someone sick at home who couldn't come." Or: "I want another piece for my kid—he's waiting around the corner out of the wind."

Chang would glance back at the line, then shake his head in defeat: "This is all we have. We can only give one per person."

Sometimes the hungry would try to reach into the cooler themselves. Ding would step in, slap their hand away, and growl: "Follow the rules, and everyone gets by." If necessary, he'd flash the pistol at his waist.

Chen Li pulled up in front of the restaurant but couldn't get through the crowd. He honked. Asha came out of the restaurant, wearing a mask and apron, dusted with flour—looking slightly comical. She waved him off: "Can't get through the front—go around the back."

Chen Li backed out, circled the block, and came to the rear entrance. Asha and Qiu Yiming were waiting, along with Asha's ever-present bodyguard, Ala.

Chen Li popped the trunk, revealing rice, flour, oil, and drinking water. In the back seat were potatoes, peppers, radishes—vegetables that kept—and a cooler packed with frozen pork under ice.

"Supplies run out faster than I expected with this many people," Chen Li said, unloading. "At this rate, this load will last maybe two days."

Qiu Yiming, hauling bags inside, said: "We can't do this every day—can't afford it. Besides, we don't want people getting used to coming daily." Sweat beaded on his forehead in the April chill. "Honestly, I don't think we should be handing out relief here at all. Back in the Seven Islands, this would be asking for trouble."

Chen Li snorted. "We've been waiting two weeks for the city to approve the relief site permit. Another two weeks, probably."

Inside, Xia Yu was rolling dough at the kitchen counter, her movements smooth and practiced. The scene was gentle and calm, a far cry from her white-coat work in the hospital. A shaft of light fell across her face, turning the ends of her hair gold.

Chen Li stared for a moment until she looked up and nodded at him. "You're off today?"

"Yeah, got off night shift and came straight over."

"Take care of yourself. If you get sick, that would be bad." He paused. "Where's Professor Shen?"

"A reporter's coming—he went to meet them."

Asha came in, washed her hands, and carried a bamboo basket over to Chen Li, stacked with freshly baked flatbreads. She beamed: "They actually look pretty decent, don't they? Xia Yu taught me. At first I couldn't work the rolling pin—couldn't get the dough right—but I got the hang of it."

Chen Li gave her a thumbs-up: "Wouldn't have expected the princess to get her hands dirty in the kitchen."

"And the young master delivering groceries?" she shot back.

Everyone laughed. The kitchen brightened. Just then, the back door opened and Shen Daoyu walked in with a young female reporter and a photographer. The reporter, from the Jinshui Post, was young and stylish, clutching a leather handbag in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Seeing everyone in the kitchen covered in flour or grease, she didn't offer to shake hands—just gave a slight nod.

When Chang Baichuan heard the reporter had arrived, he handed his ladle to Qiu Yiming and hustled over. He washed fruit, brewed tea, and cleared a space in the dining area for the interview.

Spring had arrived, but the pandemic hadn't ended as Zhao Wenlong had promised. On the contrary, with the administration's inaction, it had spread further, deepening its impact on society. In early March, the stock market had experienced four circuit-breaker halts in ten days—unprecedented, unthinkable. The crash wiped out a large portion of the middle class overnight, sending them to the streets. Chang Baichuan told the reporter candidly that he'd also taken a heavy hit—his only saving grace was that he never used leverage, so he was still standing. But some of his neighbors had already been evicted for not paying rent. At first they could still be seen drifting around the neighborhood; now they'd vanished entirely.

"At a time like this, if you disappear—that probably means you're dead."

Chang spoke with helplessness tinged with weary numbness: "Most ordinary Newlanders live paycheck to paycheck, with little savings—that's not just my experience, the data backs it up. Such a life can't weather shocks—lockdowns, hospitalization, or a stock market crash. All told, compared to before the pandemic, more and more people in middle-class neighborhoods have gone bankrupt and ended up on the streets. Theft, robbery, shootings are common—some even openly smoking weed on the streets. Just a few days ago, in a South Islander neighborhood not far from here, a store security guard reminded a customer to wear a mask per antiepidemic regulations. They argued, and the customer shot the guard dead."

"Yes, Dr. Chang, we've noticed that too. The pandemic's spread has brought not just disease but a deterioration of public safety."

"Not only that—with order getting worse, the police are on edge." Chang steered the conversation toward his area of expertise: ethnic issues. "Once, I was shopping at a supermarket wearing a mask, and a cop followed me, thinking I was a suspicious South Islander. I told him I was wearing it per antiepidemic regulations. He wasn't wearing one himself—and he told me the president had ordered South Islanders not to wear masks in supermarkets. I had to leave."

"That sounds like ethnic prejudice."

Chang shook his head. "It's not just prejudice—it's outright racial discrimination. Health Department statistics show that South Islanders account for over 60 percent of deaths in Jinshui—but they're only 20 percent of the population. So you see, even in this pandemic, we're not equal..."

He seemed about to say more, but Shen Daoyu gently cut in: "What Dr. Chang just said confirms our greatest concern: due to prejudice and discrimination, South Islanders can't wear masks to protect themselves and others—which further increases their infection rate, creating a vicious cycle. We hope President Zhao Wenlong will enforce effective antiepidemic policies to control the outbreak. Meanwhile, the economic and political crises triggered by the pandemic are spreading. Large numbers of people are falling ill, going bankrupt, and ending up on the streets, becoming security threats to communities and challenging basic mutual aid. Take this relief effort—we raised the funds ourselves, organized it ourselves. We hope to help as many people as possible—even just a bowl of hot soup, a full stomach, is a comfort right now."

Shen turned the conversation to the relief activity at Chang's Restaurant. Chang, as the venue provider, told the reporter: "Business has tanked since the pandemic started. I heard there's going to be a lockdown—no dine-in, only takeout—which will make things even harder. I figured since we don't have many customers anyway, and the ingredients would just go bad, we might as well give them to people."

Shen added: "At first we just gave leftover ingredients to homeless people on the street. We never imagined so many people would need charity to survive. So we decided to cook the most filling food we could—soup and flatbread—and distribute it. That's how this relief effort started. Dr. Chang has contributed the most."

Chang waved his hands. "My family just provided the space—the city's still sitting on our permit application." He gestured around the room. "The others came to help because we're short-staffed. Xia Yu, for example—she volunteers at the hospital and came here on her day off. She works hard. Everyone's put in a lot of effort."

The reporter asked the obvious follow-up: "What's your biggest challenge right now?"

"As I said, this is entirely self-organized—we have no funding source. Honestly, whether we can do this again tomorrow, or how long we can keep it up—we don't know. And there's security..."

Shen was cut off by a commotion at the door. Qiu Yiming rushed in and announced: "The police are here."

"Police? What for?" Chang turned to Chen Li with a helpless look. Chen Li nodded and followed him out.

Under the tarp shelter stood four officers. The eldest, with gray hair and a sergeant's badge, had sunglasses perched on his forehead and was talking with Ding Dejin. Outside the shelter, the orderly line had turned into a semicircular wall, encircling the restaurant.

The sergeant, Xiao Wanyong, was in charge of the precinct. He knew Chang. When he saw Chang approach, he frowned: "You're the one handing out food?"

Chang nodded, confused: "Officer Xiao, what's this about?"

"Your permit."

"What permit?"

"Charity event permit!"

Though the venue permit hadn't been approved, the October Society had registered as a charity organization. Chang hurriedly brought the officer inside and showed him the registration documents and the restaurant's tax exemption certificate. Xiao's expression softened. He said: "Chang, we're not trying to make trouble for you. It's good that you're feeding people—helps your taxes too. But aren't you worried about gathering such a crowd in the street? And you're violating antiepidemic regulations—that's a fine."

Chang nodded, humbling himself, pleading with Xiao for leniency given neighborhood ties and the charitable intent. Chen Li, watching, felt the tension. He stepped forward and showed his badge: "I'm from HQ, Officer Chen Li."

Xiao examined the badge, then Chen Li. "We submitted our application to the city government two weeks ago," Chen Li continued, "but it's still pending. The situation doesn't wait."

Xiao softened his tone: "We know, times are tough." He glanced around the restaurant—many people had stopped working to stare, and there were reporters present. He lowered his sunglasses from his forehead. "Here's what we'll do—luckily, no one's filed a complaint yet. Let's end today's event. Wait until the permit comes through before you start again. We'll pretend we didn't see anything."

Chang thanked him profusely. Outside, the sky had darkened, the cold wind howling, the tarp flapping loudly. But the line at the restaurant hadn't shrunk at all.

---

By early May, Newland's cases had surpassed one million, with over sixty thousand deaths. Under mounting pressure, Zhao's administration—while still insisting it was "doing a great job"—finally imposed mandatory community lockdowns, at least to contain the spread in Jinshui.

But for Newland's lower-middle class, life was hand-to-mouth. Most had no savings; many relied on day labor. They simply couldn't afford to lose their jobs. So in the hardest-hit communities, opposition to lockdowns was fiercest. In Chang's neighborhood, several large protests and gatherings had already occurred. People chanted "Lockdown is imprisonment" and "Give us back our freedom, give us back our jobs" outside police stations, giving local officers headaches.

After Xiao Wanyong's warning, Chen Li helped expedite the city government's approval. Chang had since held several more charity events. A reporter contacted by Shen Daoyu wrote an exclusive piece on Chang's Restaurant, making Chang a local celebrity. Now the restaurant had become a community hub, where neighborhood elders gathered to discuss how to survive the pandemic. Today, they planned to negotiate with Officer Xiao to shorten the lockdown period.

While waiting for Xiao, Chang set out fruit and tea and listened to the elders' chatter, most of it still about the pandemic.

"Remember when the Bus Association organized that protest to the President's Office? I said then, this mess won't be easily settled."

That had been a big story recently. Zhao Wenlong had signed a 25 billion dollars relief package for the aerospace and defense industries. Bus workers wanted similar aid. Under the slogan "100,000 jobs lost, 8 billion in losses," the Bus Association organized 800 buses from across Newland to drive into Jinshui, forming a 16-kilometer convoy. They drove through Federal Avenue in front of the Presidential Palace, horns blaring, paralyzing traffic across the city.

"More and more homeless people too. They won't go to shelters—they pile into the subway instead. It's a mess."

Homelessness had long been a serious problem. Previously, the homeless would use 24-hour businesses for sleeping and bathrooms. But lockdowns closed those places, and official shelters were unsanitary and likely to spread the virus. So they flooded the 24-hour subway system. The Jinshui subway was already old and filthy; the influx made it worse—ordinary passengers couldn't board, staff didn't know how to clean. This only worsened the spread. Nearly a thousand subway workers had been infected, with ninety deaths. In a recent interview, Mayor Zhang Zhenyang had shown a photo of the subway packed with homeless people, titled: Next Stop, Hell. For the first time in 116 years, Jinshui suspended overnight subway service to clear them out.

"Just kicking them out doesn't solve it. The Liberal Party put them up in hotels—but they'd still go out to buy cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs. It's terrifying."

Counterintuitively, the homeless could vote—and they were overwhelmingly Liberal Party supporters, tied to the party's long-standing welfare policies. But that "welfare" was more like a lazy handout: put them in hotels, give them cannabis, just keep them quiet and away from the general public, so no one panics. As for the fact that whichever party was in power would cut welfare and tighten food stamp eligibility—that was another story. At least this pandemic had hit during a Civic administration; Zhao had reduced food stamp allocations again late last year, cutting 700,000 people from the rolls to save 5.5 billion over five years. The Liberal Party had a ready accusation: "Why spend trillions bailing out the stock market, but refuse to fund food stamps?"

In the end, everyone sighed: "What's happening to this country?"

When Xiao Wanyong arrived, there were the usual pleasantries. But police life was hard too: "A few days ago, some officers in the west end arrested two South Islanders for social distancing violations. A passerby wanted to intervene—they warned him, he didn't leave, so they took him down. Standard stuff—but someone filmed it and put it online. Now the lead officer's being investigated. We have to watch every move."

"Did they go too far?" someone asked. "Couldn't they just warn them?"

"They're South Islanders!" Xiao glanced at Chang, who felt uncomfortable. "South Islanders don't follow rules—they're the ones spreading the virus. Who knows if they're high on drugs and might shoot you?"

Everyone nodded in agreement, offered sympathy, cursed the online observers, and quickly turned to the lockdown issue. The elder leading the group, a retired officer who'd served in the Seven Islands, was widely respected. He said: "Officer Xiao, we're all neighbors—you know the situation here. We're not against antiepidemic policies. No one wants to get infected—the mortality rate is high. But if we're locked down and can't work, we won't survive."

"Take our neighbors—a young couple with two kids in school, both with student loans. The husband lost his job, only odd jobs now. The wife got infected recently—can't get hospitalized, can't find medicine, just toughing it out at home. If there's another lockdown, with no income, how will they live?"

"Frankly," someone added, "getting sick might kill you, but losing your job definitely ruins you."

"And lockdowns just close businesses—people still go out. What's the point?"

Xiao looked troubled: "We have orders from above. What can we do?"

"Officer Xiao, isn't there some way to keep at least a few businesses open?"

Xiao hesitated, then thought. He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. Finally, he said: "It's just an order for now—no inspections yet. And lockdowns aren't total—some places can stay open..."

Everyone perked up: "Which places?"

Xiao glanced around and said: "Well..."

"Come on, Xiao, stop teasing!" one middle-aged man—a restaurant and KTV owner who'd lost heavily—interjected. "Aren't you our KTV's head of security? We all agreed, if business improves, we'll give you a few months' bonus." Before Xiao arrived, they'd discussed bribing him with a bonus in exchange for being among the first to get permission to reopen.

Xiao nodded contentedly. "The government isn't heartless—basic necessities still need to be covered. Supermarkets can open after police and health department evaluation, but with capacity limits. Restaurants can open for takeout with permits. Delivery services can operate—someone has to deliver."

A few of them did the math. One asked: "We're not in food or retail—what do we do?"

The speaker ran an auto repair shop. Xiao thought and said: "Two options. One, provide documentation proving your business is essential, submit it for evaluation. Two—just open quietly. I won't see it. You'll bear the consequences."

The shop owner looked hesitant. Xiao laughed. "What consequences? It's been four months—has anyone been checking?"

Everyone exchanged knowing looks and thanked Officer Xiao. The KTV owner was explicit: "The bonus will be in your account today."

---

The pandemic worsened. Lockdowns continued. But life had to go on.

As Xiao said, under antiepidemic regulations, restaurants were required to stop dine-in service and switch to takeout. But the policy was somewhat arbitrary. In reality, many people couldn't order delivery or takeout. Some had short meal breaks and couldn't remove masks at work; some had nowhere to sit and eat. Others lived in cramped capsule hotels without a table; some lived far from work without heating or kitchen facilities; many simply didn't want to pay the packaging fee. In short, many customers preferred the old way—sit down, eat a hot bowl of noodles, ease the work fatigue. So during the pandemic, disputes between customers and staff were common.

Chang's Restaurant had an employee named Gao Yixuan—not tall, plain-looking, an undergraduate chemistry student at Jinshui University. He was from a poor family, with heavy student loans, but he studied hard and nearly always received the university's need-based scholarship. When the pandemic closed the school, the scholarship stopped. He had to find work—but with so many small businesses bankrupt, good jobs were scarce. By late April, he'd seen the news story about Chang's Restaurant and, desperate, approached Chang.

Business was also struggling. Chang thought it over and, out of fellow-alumni sentiment, hired him at a lower wage but with meals included. More importantly, to save Gao money on rent, Chang let him sleep in the restaurant at night, using tables as a bed—a risky move for both, since Newland law required a special license for employee housing; letting workers sleep on the premises was a clear violation.

Gao was grateful and worked hard. He was smart and quickly became a valued employee. But he had low emotional intelligence and often spoke without thinking. Chang worried he'd offend customers, especially in these tense times.

On May 25, Year 244 of the Newland Calendar, the community lockdown was still in place, but enforcement was lax. Officers mostly kept an eye on street-level businesses—if residents went out on their own, they couldn't be stopped. So Chang's Restaurant actually saw more takeout customers than before.

More customers meant more revenue, but Chang didn't dare openly offer dine-in—a fine would be bad enough, but being caught on someone's radar could be worse.

That evening, only Gao was at the front counter. Bored, he saw a South Islander walk in—thin, dark-skinned, looking around furtively. It made Gao uneasy. He remembered the story of the supermarket security guard who was shot for reminding a customer to wear a mask—the shooter was South Islander. He slipped his phone into his pocket, finger hovering over the emergency call button.

The South Islander ordered a rice meal and sat down to wait. Gao told him he could pay first—the man ignored him. When the food was ready, Gao called him over: "That'll be 25 dollars. How would you like to pay?"

The South Islander said nothing, handed over a 100-dollar bill, and reached for the takeout box. Gao casually passed the bill through the counterfeit detector. As he picked up the box, the machine beeped: "Warning: counterfeit detected."

Gao froze. The South Islander grabbed for the box, but Gao reacted faster—he stepped back, putting the table between them, and shouted: "What are you doing!"

"Give it to me!" the man shouted back.

"This is a fake bill!" Gao yelled. As the man lunged, Gao grabbed a chair to block him. The man recoiled, then said: "Give me the food."

"You use fake money and you think you're in the right?" Gao called the police on his phone. The man said: "It's not fake."

"You can tell that to the cops, you dirty Southie monkey!"

"What did you say?"

"Southie monkey!"

"Go to hell!" The South Islander kicked forward. Gao dodged but was knocked over, table and all, landing hard, his head spinning. The South Islander, sensing trouble, cursed and kicked over more furniture as he backed out the door.

Just bruises, Gao thought, clutching his stomach as he stumbled to his feet and ran out after the man. To his surprise, the police arrived quickly. Just as the man was getting into his car, Officer Xiao Wanyong arrived with three officers and blocked him.

"That's him, Officer Xiao!" Gao shouted. Xiao drew his gun, yanked open the car door, and dragged the man out. The South Islander struggled violently, shouting "It wasn't me!" trying to push the officers away. The four of them forced him to the ground. Xiao kneeled on his neck, gun to his head, shouting: "Don't move! I'll shoot!"

The man froze, letting Xiao's knee press down as his hands were cuffed behind his back. Xiao didn't get up. He stayed on top of him.

The commotion had drawn a crowd. Phones were recording. Xiao said: "Get up. Into the car." The man said: "I can't move." Xiao repeated: "Into the car." The man's voice was hoarse now: "I'll go—but I can't move." On the third exchange, he began to moan: "Mom! Mom! Please—don't kill me! I can't breathe!"

Onlookers grew uneasy. One asked: "How long are you going to keep him down?" Another tried to approach but was blocked by officers.

The man's breathing turned into short, rasping wheezes. He sobbed, struggling to shout: "Please—I can't breathe—please, don't kill me."

Minutes later, his body went limp. Still.

An ambulance came. The police car drove away. The crowd dispersed, as if nothing had happened.

Gao leaned against the restaurant door, staring. His heart raced, his mouth was dry, his head spinning—like he was still dreaming.

He didn't know that the video filmed by a bystander would spread across the internet that night.

He didn't know that from this seemingly insignificant death, his fate—everyone's fate—the fate of the entire country—would be sucked into an unfathomable vortex.

It all came so suddenly. And yet so inevitably.