The two sets of winter gear were a study in contrasts. The outfit from Julian’s family was heavy and dense, while the Ward family’s set was notably lighter. Evelyn, however, didn’t care for nuances; she set the price at a flat thirty dollars for both.

Julian lacked the eye for quality. Seeing that the volume of the clothes was roughly the same, he didn't question the weight. Yet, thirty dollars was a staggering sum, and even a man as desperate as he felt the sting of the price tag.

Sensing his hesitation, Evelyn picked up the heaviest jacket—a solid four pounds of cotton—and thrust it toward him. Julian took it. It was cumbersome, the kind of weight that would leave a man exhausted after a day’s march, but he had heard whispers of the northern winters. When the mercury dipped to fifty below, pride was a poor insulator. Without proper gear, the cold wouldn't just bite; it would kill.

Next, she handed him the padded trousers. Julian stood there, a jacket in his left hand and trousers in his right, looking like a man drowning in a sea of heavy fabric. When he continued to waver, Evelyn reached out and snatched them back.

"I didn't say no!" Julian blurted out.

She shoved them back into his arms. Julian, trying to look like he knew what he was doing, began to pat and knead the fabric, checking for clumps in the cotton.

His fingers hit something stiff.

He reached into the inner pocket of the jacket and pulled his hand out, his eyes widening. A thick roll of cash.

Evelyn’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She lunged forward, snatching the jacket and the money back. She frantically patted down the other side, unearthing several more bills. She felt a surge of cold relief—thank God she hadn't finalized the sale yet!

Julian came from a line of merchants. During the war, his family had publicly donated their wealth to the cause, but they had always kept enough in reserve to live comfortably. He had seen money before; he wasn't the type to get greedy over a hidden stash in a coat.

Instead, he was merely curious. "You didn't know there was money in there?"

Evelyn glared at him through her mask. Of course I didn't! she thought. If I had, would I be standing here haggling with you? She cursed Julian’s mother under her breath. Who hides a small fortune in a lining instead of just wiring the money?

Evelyn tallied the find: thirty dollars in the jacket, twenty in the trousers. The Julian family stash was a goldmine; the Ward family set, unsurprisingly, was empty.

Once she was certain no more bills remained, she handed the clothes back to Julian. This time, there was no hesitation. Julian paid the thirty-dollar asking price instantly, terrified that now she had found fifty dollars, she might decide she didn't need to sell the clothes at all. He paid, grabbed his loot, and practically bolted.

Julian left the market triumphant, laden with quilts and coats. Evelyn was equally busy. Realizing the exchange had drawn eyes, she vanished into the labyrinth of alleys, changed her clothes, and headed to the North Market. There, she offloaded her watch and sewing machine coupons for another fifty dollars.

She restocked her supplies: more rice, pork, two chickens, and—in a stroke of luck—thirty dried snow clams. Now she could finally make the "Frog’s Leap" feast she had promised Adrian.

By the time she finished her errands at the general store to use up her expiring coupons, her haul was massive. After liquidating her "seized" goods, she was up several hundred dollars. Her spatial dimension was now a fortress of luxury: two hundred pounds of rice, a hundred and twenty pounds of flour, slabs of pork, three fish, fifty eggs, and heaps of fruit and pre-cooked delicacies.

The trek back to the village was long, and night had fallen by the time she slipped into her room. Exhausted but satisfied, she checked the second set of Julian’s winter clothes she had kept. Sure enough, more bills were tucked into the lining.

Money for nothing, she thought with a smirk.

Across the village, Julian was busy distributing the bedding. He had already spent over half of the two hundred dollars his mother had sent, and she had made it clear there would be no more—Adrian wouldn't allow it.

Seraphina was handed a single, musty, secondhand quilt. Her face paled, her usual poise replaced by a cold, simmering resentment.

Caleb, ever the sycophant, tried to soothe her. "Don't worry, Seraphina. Julian will get you a proper military overcoat. You'll see."

Dominic, who had been in the village longer, shook his head. "The Barretts' second son is in the military. He’s the only one who could get a coat like that."

The silence that followed was heavy. They all knew they had offended the Barretts beyond repair.

Caleb’s mind raced. If he could somehow get the coat back from Evelyn, Seraphina would finally look at him with the adoration he craved. He kept the thought to himself; he didn't want the others beating him to the punch.

Seraphina, however, knew she couldn't rely on these boys forever. The next morning, she went to the brigade office to call her mother at the factory.

"I’ll wire you twenty dollars," her mother, Sophia, said over the line. "It’s all I can manage right now. I have to save for your medicine."

Sophia would have to beg her colleagues for that twenty. It wasn't that she was stingy; it was that Seraphina’s health required a monthly tonic containing expensive ginseng. Sometimes, when the money ran thin, Sophia even sold her own blood to bridge the gap.

"Twenty dollars?" Seraphina’s voice was sharp with venom. "What am I supposed to do with twenty dollars?"

Julian’s family had sent a hundred. Even the Wards had sent eighty to Dominic. Overwhelmed by a sense of victimhood, Seraphina slammed the phone down without a goodbye.

Sophia stared at the dead receiver, crying out into the void. "Hello? Seraphina? Please, talk to me!"

Seraphina leaned against the wall of the office, hot tears pricking her eyes. She needed someone with real power. Someone who could actually change her circumstances.

She bit her lip, debating with herself for a long time before her resolve hardened. She picked up the receiver again and dialed a different number.

The Jiangcheng Revolutionary Committee.

Sloan had just returned from a raid. He was settling in with a cup of tea when the phone rang. The secretary informed him it was a woman named Seraphina calling from the countryside.

Sloan’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn't expected her to reach out so soon.

"Sloan?" Seraphina’s voice came through, thick with a practiced sob.

"Seraphina? What’s happened?"

She cried for a long time, weaving a tale of woe. She told him how Evelyn had "misunderstood" her, how everyone had turned against her, and how her precious belongings had been stolen. In her version of the story, she was the martyr, abandoned and persecuted by those she once loved.

Sloan listened in silence, leaning back in his leather chair. His expression was unreadable, his thumb slowly tracing the rim of his teacup as he absorbed every word.