Li Youcai's last memory was of himself huddled in the innermost cubicle of the laundry, holding the handwritten copy of "The Eighteen Methods of Laundry" handed down from his ancestors, listening to the sound of the world collapsing outside, and then... Passed out?
"So, I'm not dead?"
He stood up and found himself lying on the worn-out recliner at the door of the laundry, covered with a washed sheet. The store was filled with a familiar smell of laundry detergent, bleach and old scale - which in the post-apocalyptic air actually seemed a bit... Fresh?
He stood up, his legs a little weak. He walked to the glass door and looked out through the stain.
The street is still the same street, but completely different...
