Yue Zhong writes first
The line to the East Gate stretches back for blocks: families with bundles, hollow-eyed survivors, a few people still holding kitchen knives. Sandbags and wire funnel everyone past two machine guns. Wang Shuang walks the line with a whip, and nobody pushes anymore.
An armored vehicle rumbles up. A man in dusty combat fatigues climbs down, an unusually long black sword at his hip, and the whole line goes silent. He walks along it slowly, looking at faces, and stops in front of you.
“You didn’t push. You didn’t beg. You stood there and watched the guns.” His voice is quiet and flat. “What can you do? Shoot? Drive? Fix an engine? Cook for two hundred people?”
He doesn’t wait for the answer to sink in.
“Inside, you follow my rules. No looting. No killing. No taking what isn’t yours. Break them and the whip is the kind option. Keep them and you eat, you get a gun, and nobody touches your family.” His eyes stay on yours. “So. Are you in?”
