The World Ends In 27 Days

Zeyu’s father passed behind his mother with a newspaper folded beneath one arm. The ordinary sight of it struck Zeyu harder than the disaster footage covering the wall.

They had newspapers there.

Such a mundane thing, and yet it stuck out like a sore thumb.

Someone had printed them, delivered them and placed them wherever his father had eaten breakfast.

Beyond the camera, people were swimming. A restaurant kitchen was preparing food. Employees were carrying drinks because earning money still mattered in a place where stepping outdoors didn’t kill them.

His mother adjusted the phone. "Your father wants to know whether you completed the transfer."

"I did it this morning," Zeyu replied absently, his eyes focused on the people living their best lives.

It was clear that the banks still worked. The numbers still moved from one account to another, obedient and precise, although there was increasingly little those numbers could purchase inside Yunzhou.

His father leaned into view. "The international accounts?"

"All of them," Zeyu replied, pulling himself back into the conversation.

"You should move the rest while the markets are open."

"They suspended trading again."

"That is exactly why I told you to come with us." His father straightened, impatience replacing concern with familiar ease. "You could handle everything from here instead of sitting inside that bunker."

Shelter, Zeyu almost corrected.

The distinction mattered to Hanchuan and he had drilled it into their heads, too, when they were building these things.

A bunker was where frightened people hid until danger passed. A shelter was where they intended to live because nothing outside would return to normal.

His family still believed they were waiting for the temperature to fall.

"I’m safer here," Zeyu reminded him.

"You would have been safe with us."

His mother turned the phone, showing him the shaded terrace and the glasses waiting on the table. "The hotel has been wonderful. We barely notice the heat reports unless we turn on the international news. Your father played golf this morning."

"It was cooler near the coast," his father explained, as though Zeyu had questioned the wisdom of the decision.

Behind them, a server set another glass on the table. Ice struck glass with a delicate sound.

On the communications wall, the news footage changed to a hospital entrance.

People crowded the doors while security officers attempted to hold them back. A caption announced that the hospital had reached capacity, though ambulances continued arriving.

Qinghe muted the television.

The absence of sound made Zeyu’s family appear louder.

His mother glanced toward someone outside the camera. "We’re going into the city this evening. Your sister wants to try a restaurant she saw online. She says their desserts are famous."

"That sounds unbearable."

"You would like it."

Zeyu looked at the dying hospital behind her face. "I probably would."

The answer emerged without humor.

His mother’s expression changed. "Are you all right?"

He should have told her that he was relieved.

After all, his family was alive. They had escaped before the airports closed and the roads became impassable.

This was all that he could possibly want.

They were safe enough to discuss dessert while millions of people remained trapped in Yunzhou.

"I’m fine," he assured her, restoring the smile she expected. "The shelter has everything. Hanchuan planned for all of us."

His father’s mouth tightened at the name. "Hanchuan planned for himself and that girl."

The words landed too close to something Zeyu had been trying not to think.

"He brought all five of us inside," Zeyu replied.

"And you chose him over your family."

His smile nearly failed.

No one else in the room moved, but Zeyu knew they had heard. There was no privacy among four men sharing silence.

"You were leaving," he reminded his father.

"We asked you to come," the father snapped back.

"Hanchuan needed me."

His father released a short breath. "Hanchuan has his wife. You should have remembered where you belonged."

Upstairs, the floor gave another faint protest.

Zeyu stared at his father’s face and hated him for being right. Then he hated himself more, because Hanchuan had never asked him to make a choice.

Hanchuan had told all four of them what was coming and offered them safety.

Zeyu had stepped into that safety willingly. He had believed staying beside his best friend mattered more than escaping with people who possessed the resources to leave.

Now his family had sunlight, open sky and plans for dinner.

Hanchuan had Zhiyi.

And Zeyu had a sofa facing the end of the world.

His mother touched his father’s arm before returning her attention to the phone. "We only want you safe."

"I am safe." Zeyu heard the bitterness beneath the words and covered it with another smile. "Safer than you are, probably. Tell my sister to send me a picture of the dessert."

"We’ll call tomorrow."

"Of course you will."

His mother told him that she loved him. Zeyu returned the words before ending the call.

For several seconds, his reflection remained visible on the black screen. He looked exactly as he always did—well dressed, relaxed and faintly amused by a world that took itself too seriously.

The expression disappeared when he placed the phone facedown.

"At least they’re safe," Qinghe murmured.

Zeyu looked toward the hospital entrance frozen across the communications wall. Qinghe’s parents were still inside one of those buildings. Shichen’s family remained elsewhere in the city. Jingwei had people scattered across districts his security teams could no longer reach.

Zeyu had no right to complain to any of them.

"They are," he agreed.

The words should have contained gratitude.

Instead, they tasted like envy.

Footsteps sounded above them a short while later. Zeyu knew Hanchuan’s pace well enough to recognize it, followed by Zhiyi’s lighter steps. The private door opened, and their voices traveled briefly through the hall.

Hanchuan entered the living room first.

He had changed his clothes, but satisfaction remained in the ease of his expression. Zhiyi followed wearing a fresh shirt, her hair gathered into a loose knot that left several strands against her neck.

At least she looked rested.

The strain she had carried away from the communications wall had disappeared.

Hanchuan went directly to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water prepared the way she preferred it. Zhiyi accepted it without looking away from the news screen, as though being cared for by him had become too familiar to require acknowledgment.

Perhaps it had.

Her gaze moved over the muted broadcast and then across the four men sitting before it.

"What changed?"

"Nothing," Jingwei answered.

That was the worst part.

Outside, people were still dying.

The government was still promising relief. Their families remained exactly where they had been an hour ago. Inside, the temperature held steady, the water remained cold and Hanchuan stood beside the woman he loved with every indication that his world was complete.

Zeyu had chosen him over the family waiting beside a blue pool in another country.

He would probably make the same choice again.

For the first time, he hated Hanchuan for that too.