84: Chapter 84 No one in the entire neighborhood heard him shout.

The sixth floor.

Black smoke billowed from the shattered windows, so thick that it swallowed half of the exterior wall.

Tongues of fire licked the window frames, and the stench of burning plastic poured down from eighteen meters above, stinging the eyes.

Someone was shouting inside.

It was sharp, intermittent, and already tinged with a sob.

Li Li looked up for a second, then opened his mouth and roared.

"Fire—! The sixth floor is on fire—!"

He tore his throat out, shouting as loudly as he could.

His only response—was square dancing.

Thirty meters behind him, in the complex's garden, a dozen or so middle-aged women were lined up in two rows, holding fans and performing kicks and turns. The speakers were cranked to their physical limit, and the chorus of a Phoenix Legend song drowned out everything else.

To his left, a third-floor resident's TV was propped against the window, and the intro music for the nightly news began right on time.

To his right, an old man on a fourth-floor balcony held an enamel mug and shouted to the building opposite.

"Old Wang! You playing chess tomorrow?"

"What?!"

"Are—you—playing—chess—!"

"What?! What chess!!"

Li Li roared until his throat felt raw.

No one answered. Not a single person.

He cursed under his breath and pulled out his phone.

He dialed 119, and it connected in two seconds.

"East of Sanyuan Bridge, Yudeli complex, sixth floor on fire, people trapped! Open flames have burned through the window, and there's heavy smoke!"

"Received. May I ask—"

He hung up.

The Fire Department would take at least eight minutes to get here.

The voice upstairs couldn't wait eight minutes.

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and took off running.

This building faced the street, but the entrance was at the back, separated by a wall, flower beds, and a row of bicycle sheds. He had to go around through the alley to the main gate and then cut through the complex.

None of the roads in the old complex were straight. There were turns, dead ends, and narrow paths packed with electric scooters.

He rounded the gable of the first building, wove through a rack of drying bedsheets, and stepped along the edge of a flower bed to jump over a drainage ditch—

Seventy seconds.

At the main entrance, an old man in a blue uniform sat in the guard shack watching a fourteen-inch color TV, where the news was currently on the international segment.

Li Li slammed his hand onto the windowsill.

The old man almost dropped his teacup.

"Fire! Sixth floor! Someone is trapped!"

The old man froze for a second, then poked his head out.

"What? Which building?"

"The one facing the street! Hurry up and clear the fire lane!"

The old man couldn't sit still; he grabbed his phone to dial, muttering "Oh dear, oh dear," and ran out after him.

Li Li didn't wait for him.

He charged into the complex and sprinted along the central path.

Yudeli was an old residential area from the nineties, with buildings spaced so closely that two people could barely walk side by side. Building 6 was on the far edge, requiring him to cross more than half the complex from the main gate.

The gaps between the six buildings flashed by.

His heartbeat was unnervingly steady. His breathing rhythm hadn't faltered either.

If it had been his 140-jin frame from three years ago, he would have collapsed on the ground and vomited his dinner after running this lap.

He cut through the passage between Building 3 and Building 4—

Building 6.

From this side, it looked peaceful and quiet. Warm yellow lights shone from the windows, and a family on the fifth floor was stir-frying dinner, their range hood humming.

The fire was on the other side. There wasn't a single sign of it here.

Downstairs—the eleven middle-aged women were just hitting the chorus of their square dance.

"Today is a happy Sunday—"

Li Li rushed over and—pop—unplugged the power.

The music cut out. Eleven pairs of eyes glared at him in unison.

"Young man, what are you doing?!"

"Building 6, the sixth floor is on fire!" He pointed up. "Scatter! Someone is trapped!"

The lead dancer didn't lower her folding fan, instead tilting her head to look up at the building.

"On fire? Why didn't I see—"

"It's on the other side! The windows have already exploded!"

The women looked at one another.

A short woman with permed curls suddenly turned pale, her red silk fan clattering to the ground.

"The sixth floor… which room on the sixth floor?"

"The one facing the street, it should be—" Li Li's brain rapidly calculated the hallway layout and window positions, "The one on the right."

The short woman's lips went white.

"602—602 is my daughter's home—"

She slumped, and the women beside her hurriedly caught her.

"My daughter and Yaya are still inside! Yaya is only three years old! Please save her—I beg you—"

Her voice trembled, and her legs gave out.

Li Li had no time to say more.

"Notify the other floors to evacuate! Don't go up! The Fire Department will be here soon!"

He turned and bolted into the stairwell.

There was no elevator. Just a bare concrete staircase with iron railings and a landing every half-floor. Only the light on the first floor was on; everything above was pitch black.

He bounded up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

The old guard followed behind, panting, knocking on the doors of every floor as he climbed.

"Fire! Everyone get out! Run downstairs!"

On the second floor, a door opened, and a head poked out.

"Who's—"

"The building is on fire! Get downstairs now!"

Third floor, knock. Fourth floor, knock.

The sound of footsteps and knocking echoed through the stairwell.

Li Li left the old man behind and pushed his speed to the limit.

Fifth floor—sixth floor—

He arrived.

The sixth-floor hallway. The air felt wrong.

It was hot and dry. His nasal passages stung with the acrid smell of burning.

Smoke hadn't flooded the hallway yet—the door was still closed.

602. The iron security door's frame was already scorched black at the bottom.

Inside—it wasn't shouting anymore. It was coughing.

Low, violent, racking coughs. And a child crying.

Li Li raised his hand. His fingertips were a centimeter from the doorknob. He stopped.

A memory exploded in his mind.

In his past life as a delivery driver, he'd spent the dog days of summer zipping around on his electric scooter. Once, while making a delivery at a complex, he happened to run into the Fire Department putting out a fire, and he'd spent half an hour squatting outside the police line, gnawing on a steamed bun and watching.

The captain had given an impromptu safety lesson to the onlookers right there—

"If there's a fire, don't kick or pull the door open! Use the back of your hand to test the temperature first! If it's hot, it means the interior is fully engulfed. Opening the door lets fresh air in—causing a backdraft. Superheated gases expand instantly, and a fireball will spray right out of the doorway."

"Anyone standing at the door will be burned to a crisp in three seconds."

Li Li turned his hand over and pressed the back of it against the door panel. It was scorching.

It wasn't the gentle warmth of a radiator.

He jerked his hand back; a red, purple-tinged burn was already welted on it.

The temperature inside was insanely high. This door was now a cork.

Pull it—and it would become the mouth of an incinerator.

He had no protective suit, no fire hose, no respirator.

He was wearing a pilled white T-shirt.

Opening the door was equivalent to suicide.

But if he didn't—the woman and the three-year-old child inside wouldn't wait for the Fire Department.

Sounds of knocking and shouting drifted up from downstairs, and someone was crying. He was the only one in the sixth-floor hallway.

He stood up. Turned around. 601.

The door was ajar, the room pitch black; no one was home.

He kicked it open and rushed inside.

He crossed the living room, bypassed the balcony, and ducked into the bathroom first.

He turned the shower head to full blast, and cold water poured over his head.

His white T-shirt instantly plastered to his body, and water streamed down his pant legs, pooling on the floor tiles.

It wasn't enough.

He tore a bath towel from the rack, shoved it under the water until it was soaked, wrung it out twice, wrapped it around his nose and mouth, and tied a tight knot behind his head.

He looked like a bandit.

He soaked a second towel, draped it over his head, and water trickled down his neck.

His clothes were soaked, his head wrapped, and his nose and mouth sealed.

The poor man's version of firefighting gear was ready.

He rushed out of the bathroom and headed straight for the balcony.

Between the balconies of 602 and 601—was 1.2 meters.

In the old residential building, the balconies were adjacent, separated by a waist-high concrete wall and an iron railing.

The street-facing windows of 602 had already blown out, and the fire was on that side. On the balcony side, smoke was seeping out through the cracks in the door and windows, but there were no open flames yet.

Li Li climbed over the railing. His feet landed on the concrete ledge of the 601 balcony.

The railing was rusty and crumbling, creaking under his hands.

The sixth floor. Eighteen meters up.

He glanced down. People below were looking up and shouting something he couldn't hear.

He pulled his gaze back. He twisted his left wrist.

He kicked the glass door of the 602 balcony, shattering it.

Shattered glass exploded inward. Black smoke surged out from the opening, and a wave of heat carrying a charred stench slammed into his face.

He sidestepped the first wave, tightened the wet towel on his face, bent over, and crawled inside.

It was black. He couldn't see a thing.

Heat waves pressed in from all directions; the temperature was even higher than at the hallway door.

He stepped on something—broken ceramic, or maybe a toy?

The child's crying came from the right. It was closer. Very close.

Li Li crawled along the floor, feeling the wall as he moved deeper.

He still owed Jiang Rumu a meal. He couldn't die here.

Behind the door on the right, the crying suddenly grew faint.

It hadn't stopped. They were just too weak to cry anymore.