Forty minutes into the apocalypse, I found a pawnshop: junk could buy you another day of life.
While others fought over supplies, I collected junk. While others begged for their lives, I kept the books.
The day the neighborhood chief snatched a child's biscuits, I pulled out my ledger and read the numbers aloud for everyone to hear. It took me twelve days to go from "junk collector" to "Boss," as the whole street called me.
On the night of the twelfth day, a pawn ticket appeared on the counter: Yang Zhao, three years of life.
I tore it up. "How the ticket is written, how the interest is calculated, and when it gets paid back are all up to me."
This street answers to me. The main branch is in the city, and its doors are open.
