Hit It Hard, What—Haven’t You Eaten?

Separated by nothing but a sheet of glass, the scene on either side of the window couldn't be more surreal.

Outside: faces twisted in rage and desperation, people hurling tools and fists, screaming curses as snow whipped around them like blades.

Inside: Ethan Cross lay leisurely on his lounge chair, sipping rich coffee, snacking on warm food—the very embodiment of comfort.

The contrast was maddening.

"Ethan! I swear I'll kill you myself!"

"You think this window will save you? You selfish bastard!"

"You're finished! You hear me?! Today's the day you die!"

"All that food, that coffee—it's mine! MINE!"

Ethan smiled at them through the glass, raised his coffee cup, and took a long, satisfying sip.

"Go on, keep trying. I believe in you."

But the wind at the 24th floor was brutal. Heavy snow howled in, sucking away their body heat like a vacuum. Ten minutes of swinging and they were forced to rotate out.

Half an hour passed.

The glass didn't even crack.

A few faint scratches, that's all.

And yet, behind it all, Ethan lounged. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Coffee warm. That smug grin never left his face.

They couldn't give up.

Not when paradise was right in front of them—and they were dying outside.

Another thirty minutes dragged by.

Ethan saw some familiar faces among the group—Tony Chen's lackeys. Apparently, even the boss had to chip in.

Ethan figured it was time.

He stood up from the chair, walked to his coffee table, and picked up a glass bottle.

The mob outside didn't know what it was—just another drink?

Then Ethan struck a lighter.

A blue flame sparked to life.

Fwoosh—

From a slit near the ceiling, a fiery arc shot into the snowstorm.

The Molotov soared, spinning like a comet, before it smashed against the concrete balcony.

BOOM!

Flames burst across the deck, licking the snow, clothes, bodies—everything.

Gasoline clung and crawled like a demon. Even in subzero temps, it burned hot.

On a tight balcony packed with people, it spread fast.

Screams pierced the blizzard.

They were trapped. Their jackets soaked with fuel, they became human torches.

Ethan grinned and casually lit a second bottle.

"More heat coming up."

FWOOOM!

Another fiery blast engulfed the rest.

Some tried to roll on the snow to put out the flames—useless.

Gasoline burns even on water.

Others leapt for the next balcony—one misstep, and they vanished into the abyss below.

"AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"

BOOM—

The fall from the 24th floor didn't need confirmation.

Whether the snow cushioned the fall or not, bones would break, organs would burst. Dead.

Ethan smirked.

"Burning's rough. Hope the fall was quicker."

One man, face blackened and eyes wild, slammed against the window.

"Please—help me! Help me!!!"

Ethan clinked his coffee cup against the glass.

"Help you? Buddy, go to hell."

The man screamed one last time before collapsing in flame.

On the neighboring balcony, sixty more people had gathered, waiting for their turn.

They turned pale, frozen, and silent.

"HELP ME!!! PLEASE!!!"

One of the fire-wreathed men clawed at the railing, trying to cross over.

A man on the next balcony didn't even hesitate. He kicked at the flaming hands with steel-toed boots.

"Get away from me! You're dead already!"

Again.

And again.

The man's fingers snapped, skin tearing away as the boot struck harder each time.

Finally, the burning man slumped forward, a silent corpse in the snow.

The stench of burning flesh filled the air.

If you've ever walked past a skewer stand on a summer street… you know the smell.

Within minutes, everyone on the balcony was either dead or dying.

Some had burns that could have been survived—but their neighbors refused to let them flee.

Better them than me.

A few, too far gone from pain, hurled themselves from the balcony.

The flames, as horrifying as they were, provided something the crowd hadn't felt in days—warmth.

Silently, one by one, people stepped forward.

Held out their hands.

To warm them by the fire.

And they smiled.

Just a little.

Hidden.

But there.

It took over twenty minutes for the fires to die down.

What remained was a collection of charred corpses, still smoldering in the snow.

Three or four dozen people had died by now.

And still—no breach.

No cracked door.

No shattered glass.

Nothing.

The survivors stared at the walls of Ethan's fortress.

A chill deeper than the cold crept through their bones.

"What now?"

The air grew heavy with dread.

But something else lingered, too.

Hunger.

It warped their eyes. Twisted their thoughts. Tightened their throats.

None dared say it.

But they all knew:

They were starting to look at each other differently.

Then a woman collapsed to her knees and sobbed.

"I can't take it anymore!"

They had believed that, with numbers, they'd break him.

They believed they'd feast inside by nightfall.

But now?

Dozens dead. Walls untouched. No hope in sight.

She stumbled forward onto Ethan's balcony.

He tensed, thinking another idiot was about to start smashing the glass again.

But instead—she dropped to her knees.

"Please, Ethan… I'm starving… just one piece of bread. That's all I need…"

Not just her.

One after another, more people dropped to their knees.

Some pressed their heads to the glass, others sobbed so hard their voices cracked.

"Ethan… please… anything…"

Most of them were women.

Trying to appeal to pity.

Trying to survive.

And Ethan?

He leaned back in his chair, sipped his coffee, and watched the show.