Reborn as the Doomsday Tycoon: My Zombie Apocalypse Harem

Outside, the world froze in agony while Xiao Yang and Mu Wanqing feasted in warmth.

On the third night of the coldwave, electricity died.

Darkness swallowed Wanqing's bedroom mid-song. She pressed against frost-crusted windows - the entire villa complex had plunged into blackness. Her fingers traced wallpaper patterns toward the door, colliding with Xiao Yang's solid warmth as he emerged simultaneously.

"Power outage?" Her breath fogged the air between them.

"Backup generator." His parka rustled as he turned.

Her hand shot out, grabbing padded fabric. "Wait! Did you layer enough-" The words died as her palms met his Michelin-man silhouette. Laughter bubbled up when her fingers found his half-zipped collar. "Sloppy." She tugged the zipper snug beneath his chin, knuckles grazing stubble. "Hurry back."

Xiao Yang froze. That maternal gesture - absent since his mother's death - unraveled something in his chest. Suddenly, her hand felt fragile in his grip. "I'll return." The promise lingered as he plunged into -20°C hell.

Wind blades sliced his cheeks. Generator room warmth embraced him like an old friend. After wrestling the diesel beast to life, he sprinted back through snowdrifts. Wanqing materialized in the doorway haloed by restored electricity, scanning him like medevac personnel.

"Any frostbite?"

"My hands." He extended them dramatically.

Her inspection turned surgical until his chuckle rumbled. "Miracle cure - your touch healed them."

"You!" She flung his hands away, storming off until his laughter hooked her waist. "Movie night?" he bribed. "No internet," she countered, arms crossed.

With magician's flair, he produced a thumb drive. "A thousand films. Including..." He leaned conspiratorially, "...all seven _Harry Potter_s."

Their socked feet pattered down to the basement cinema, popcorn scent soon mingling with the coal furnace's metallic tang.

Nine days blurred - lazy mornings with Coal the raven nesting in Wanqing's hair, afternoons debating film plots, nights curled under electric blankets. The bird now imitated their laughter with uncanny precision.

On day nine, wind died but sunlight remained myth.

"Miss Chef Lu's braised pork." Wanqing poked congealed hotpot oil. "Marry whoever brings that now."

Xiao Yang's chopsticks paused. His spatial storage held nine intact banquet tables from Haijiao Restaurant.

That night, bathtub splashes masked his preparations. He resurrected steamed sea bass gleaming with soy glaze, arranged drunken shrimp still twitching in rice wine. The raven cawed approval from its perch.

Wanqing emerged damp-haired, nostrils flaring. "Chef Lu's signature platters?" Her fingernail tapped authentic restaurant china. "Xiao Yang, how-"

"Wrong question." He trapped her against the dining table, crab roe dumplings steaming between them.

Her pulse rabbited beneath his thumb. "You're... serious?"

"Deadly." His lips hovered above hers, catching the "yes" before it fully formed.

Coal spread wings in celebration as winter's hunger found new sustenance indoors.