Chapter 3: Midnight Grain and Uninvited Faces

The flour-dust apron of the merchant hung loosely over a heavy frame. At the sound of Lin Yan’s sharp command, old Mr. Cheney froze mid-motion, his hand still gripping the wooden plank meant to seal his shop for the night.

He slowly turned around.

In the dim glow of the overhead security bulb, he saw a young woman standing before him. From a distance, her sharp features and tall, elegant posture suggested someone from a good family. But as she stepped into the light, Mr. Cheney’s breath caught in his throat.

Her jacket was torn at the shoulder, a dark, dried crust of blood stained her sleeve, and a faint bruise darkened her cheekbone.

The old man’s instincts screamed at him. Trouble.

He scrambled backward, his hands fumbling to slam the remaining wooden slat into place. "We're closed! Come back tomorrow morning, young lady. I'm an honest merchant, I don't want any police trouble—"

Before he could drop the latch, a slim, calloused hand shot out, grabbing the edge of the wood with terrifying force.

Mr. Cheney tried to push it down, but the plank didn't budge an inch. He looked up into Lin Yan’s eyes. They were completely devoid of panic, shining with a cold, dead certainty that made his blood run cold.

"I am not here to cause trouble, boss," Lin Yan said, her voice low and even. "I am here to empty your warehouse. Every last sack of grain you have in stock. I want it all."

Mr. Cheney stared at her, blinking rapidly. "All... all of it? Young lady, do you know how much stock is in here? I have over eight thousand fifty-pound bags of premium white rice and another two thousand bags of whole wheat flour. That's—"

"I don't care about the total number," Lin Yan interrupted, pulling a thick stack of banded cash from her jacket pocket and tossing it squarely onto the wooden counter between them. It landed with a heavy, satisfying thud. "This is a fifty-thousand-yuan deposit. Calculate the exact total for every grain sack, and we will sign a contract right now."

The old merchant stared at the bricks of cash, then up at the bruised young woman.

In this district, people didn't throw around cash like bricks unless they were desperate or laundering money. But looking at Lin Yan, he sensed neither fear nor guilt—only an absolute, chilling urgency.

"Alright," Mr. Cheney swallowed hard, his professional greed momentarily overcoming his fear. "Alright! If you have the money, old Cheney has the goods. But delivery logistics at this hour—"

"You don't need to worry about delivery," Lin Yan said smoothly. "Just have your workers load it onto the trucks I provide. Starting tonight, and for the next ten days, keep your suppliers on speed dial. I will buy everything you can source."

Mr. Cheney’s eyes widened. Ten days of continuous bulk purchasing? This girl wasn't just buying food; she was buying out the entire regional supply chain.

"Deal," the old man rasped, pulling out an invoice book with trembling fingers.

Two hours later, the first batch of three hundred bags of rice vanished into the invisible boundaries of Lin Yan’s dormant storage dimension as she loaded them into the back of her van under the cover of the deserted loading dock.

Her arm throbbed where she had been struck earlier, but she ignored the pain. Physical agony was nothing compared to the phantom chill of the nuclear winter she had endured for a decade.

By the time she finished clearing the initial lot, past midnight, her stomach let out a sharp, audible growl.

Running on adrenaline alone could only carry a half-starved eighteen-year-old body so far. Smelling the rich, greasy scent of charcoal-grilled skewers drifting from a nearby night market street, Lin Yan parked the van in the shadows and walked toward the stalls.

She needed calories. Heavy, greasy, uncompromising calories.

She ordered two dozen spicy mutton skewers, a roasted sweet potato, and a bowl of steaming broth, sitting down at a sticky plastic table near the alley edge.

Just as the food was served, a loud, obnoxious laugh cut through the clatter of ceramic bowls and chatting patrons.

"Well, well, well. Look who it is. If it isn't our dear little abandoned heiress of the Lin family."

Lin Yan didn't look up. She bit into a piece of spiced mutton, chewing slowly and methodically as the fat warmed her empty stomach.

A group of three young men swaggering in expensive designer jackets stopped beside her table. Leading them was Gao Ming, a minor heir to a local real estate firm and one of Lin Wei's primary drinking buddies in the old days.

In her past life, Gao Ming had been among the first to mock her when she was brought back to the Lin household as a country-raised orphan, treating her like a cheap parlor trick to amuse his friends.

"Hey, Lin Yan, are you deaf?" Gao Ming sneered, stepping closer and kicking the leg of her plastic chair. "I heard your stepbrother beat you half to death in an alley this afternoon, and now here you are, sitting in a gutter eating street food like a stray dog. Did the family cut off your allowance completely?"

The other two youths laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the surrounding diners.

Lin Yan finally lowered her skewer. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, her movements unhurried, before slowly raising her dark, steady gaze to meet Gao Ming's smug face.