The news broke at noon, but this time, it had a different headline.
I was on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through social media with the kind of blank expression that suggested complete disinterest.
The television was on in the background—some cooking show Xu Zhenlan had left running before disappearing into his study. The host was explaining the proper way to fold dumplings.
Then the program cut to a breaking news alert.
I didn't look up immediately. Just kept scrolling, my thumb moving across the screen in lazy swipes. But I was listening.
"—reports coming in from across the city of what authorities are calling a coordinated theft operation of unprecedented scale—"
My thumb stopped moving.
"—hundreds of stores affected overnight. Pharmacies, grocery stores, supply shops, hardware retailers. In each case, security systems remained intact. Doors were locked. No signs of forced entry. And yet—"
The camera cut to footage of an empty pharmacy. Shelves completely bare. Not a single bottle, box, or package remaining. Just empty metal racks under fluorescent lights.
"—everything is gone."
I kept my expression neutral. Bored, even. Like I was only half-listening to background noise while I scrolled through pictures of someone's lunch.
Internally, I was calculating.
The news anchor's voice continued, tight with barely concealed alarm. "Police are baffled by the scope and coordination of the thefts. Surveillance footage shows no unusual activity. Security systems logged no breaches. Store managers arrived this morning to find their inventory completely depleted with no explanation for how or when it occurred."
The screen showed more footage. A grocery store with empty aisles. A hardware shop with bare shelves. A camping supply retailer stripped clean.
I recognized every single location.
Of course I did.
"Authorities estimate the total value of stolen goods in the tens of millions. The method remains unknown. Investigators are reviewing all available footage and interviewing staff, but so far, no suspects have been identified."
My phone buzzed. A news alert. I tapped it.
MASSIVE COORDINATED THEFT ACROSS CITY - HUNDREDS OF STORES EMPTIED OVERNIGHT
I scrolled through the article. The details were exactly what the broadcast had said. No forced entry. Security intact. Everything just... gone.
They were calling it coordinated. Organized crime. A sophisticated operation involving multiple teams working simultaneously across the city.
They had no idea it was one person.
One person who could make things disappear without touching them.
I set my phone down on the couch beside me and finally looked at the television. The news anchor was interviewing a police spokesperson now, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and the expression of someone who'd been asked to explain the impossible.
"We're exploring all possibilities," he said. "The scale of this operation suggests significant planning and resources. We're coordinating with multiple agencies to—"
I stopped listening.
This changed things.
Before, I'd been operating under the radar. Small thefts spread across time and location. Nothing that would trigger a coordinated response. Nothing that would make headlines.
But last night, I'd stripped dozens of stores in a single sweep. Fast. Direct. No subtlety.
And now the entire city was looking for whoever did it.
I leaned back against the couch cushions, my expression still blank, my mind racing through implications.
Increased security. More surveillance. Police presence at stores. Investigators reviewing footage, interviewing staff, looking for patterns.
The risk of going out again had just multiplied exponentially.
But I needed more supplies.
The thought sat in my chest like a weight. Medical equipment. Food. Water purification systems. Batteries. Tools. I'd taken a lot last night, but not everything. There were still gaps. Still items I needed if I was going to survive whatever was coming.
And I didn't know when it was coming.
That was the problem. The timeline had shifted. Events were accelerating. The infection was spreading faster than expected, which meant the collapse could happen sooner than May 6th.
It could happen next week.
It could happen tomorrow.
If I waited too long, I might not get another chance. The stores would be empty—legitimately empty, stripped by panicking crowds once people realized the government couldn't contain the outbreak. Or worse, I'd be trapped inside when the collapse came, unable to leave, unable to finish preparing.
But if I went out now, with the entire city on alert, with investigators actively looking for whoever emptied those stores...
The risk was significant.
Possibly too significant.
I picked up my phone again and opened a news app. More articles were appearing by the minute.
POLICE INCREASE PATROLS NEAR RETAIL DISTRICTS. STORE OWNERS DEMAND ANSWERS AFTER MYSTERIOUS THEFTS. SECURITY FIRMS OFFER EMERGENCY MONITORING SERVICES.
Everyone was reacting. Everyone was watching.
Going out now would be walking into a spotlight.
I scrolled through more articles, my expression unchanging, my mind working through probabilities and outcomes.
Option one: Go out tonight. Hit the remaining stores I needed. Accept the increased risk of being seen, caught, identified. The supplies would be worth it if I could pull it off. But if I couldn't—if someone saw me, if surveillance caught something, if investigators connected me to the thefts—everything would unravel. Zhenlan would find out. Jian Yuche would have proof. I'd lose the ability to move freely just when I needed it most.
Option two: Wait. Let the attention die down. Give it a few days for the investigation to stall, for security to relax, for people to move on to the next crisis. Safer. More controlled. But the timeline was accelerating. Waiting might mean missing my window entirely. The outbreak could reach the city before I had another chance to stock up.
Option three: Stop. Accept what I had. My space was well-stocked, even if it wasn't completely full yet. The basement wasn't perfect, but it was functional for what I needed it for.
I could survive on what I'd already taken. It would mean going without some items I wanted—backup medical supplies, additional food stores, redundant equipment. But I'd live.
Probably.
Maybe.
I stared at the phone screen, at the articles multiplying like a virus, and felt something unfamiliar settle in my chest.
Hesitation.
I'd been so certain until now. Every action calculated but executed without doubt. I knew what I needed. I knew how to get it. I just did it.
But this was different.
This was a choice between competing risks, and I didn't have enough information to know which was worse.
The sound of footsteps made me glance toward the hallway. Chenghai appeared, carrying a cup of tea. He set it on the side table next to me without comment, then settled into the chair across from the couch, his gaze drifting to the television.
The news was still running footage of empty stores.
"Crazy," he said, his tone conversational. "Who steals that much stuff without leaving a trace?"
I picked up the tea and took a sip. "Someone very good at it."
"Or very lucky."
"Luck eventually runs out."
He glanced at me, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah. It does."
I didn't respond. Just kept my eyes on the television, watching the footage cycle through store after store, all of them stripped bare, all of them impossible to explain.
My work.
My risk.
My problem.
Chenghai's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, read something, then stood. "Zhenlan wants me upstairs. You good here?"
"Fine."
He left.
I was alone again.
The television continued its coverage. More interviews. More speculation. More footage of empty shelves and confused store owners.
I set the tea down and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the screen.
I needed more supplies.
But going out now carried serious risk.
The timeline was accelerating, but I didn't know by how much.
The outbreak could arrive tomorrow. Or next week. Or in ten days. Or the original twenty-two.
I didn't know.
And that uncertainty made every decision feel like gambling with my survival.
I stood and walked to the window. Outside, the street looked normal. Quiet. A few cars passing. A neighbor walking a dog. Nothing to suggest the world was about to tear itself apart.
But I knew better.
I'd lived through this before. I knew what came next.
The question was whether I had time to prepare for it properly, or whether I needed to accept what I had and hope it was enough.
My gaze drifted from the window to the front door.
Solid. Locked. Safe.
Beyond it, the city. Stores still full of supplies I needed. Investigators looking for whoever emptied the others. Security on high alert. Risk multiplying with every hour that passed.
But also: opportunity.
One more night. One more sweep. One more chance to fill the gaps before everything collapsed.
Could I afford to go?
Could I afford not to?
I stood there, staring at the door, calculating odds I didn't have enough information to properly assess.
For the first time since I'd woken up in this second life, I didn't know what to do.
And the clock was still ticking.