Chapter 1388 - 1384: Boss Ji, Ruthless and Laconic
When Chloe Winston took Wendy Starling and outright abandoned the besieged little cabin, heading straight for the town hospital, Constantine Stewart and the others had already been trapped for several hours.
"Eight in the yard, ten pacing back and forth in front and behind the house, plus two on standby. One versus five, one bite and you turn, there’s no way we can win this." Desmond Wood lay by the window, watching these zombies who walked like they were having a seizure. His face screamed "I’ve lost the will to live," his eyes were dead as he muttered, "Never thought a handsome, suave, universally adored guy like me would actually starve to death one day. Little Chloe, hurry up and save your dear Desmond."
Inside the house were four men. Constantine Stewart was resting with his eyes closed, while Charles Taylor had already turned this two‑story detached house upside down. There was no way out, you couldn’t even climb onto the roof. The production team had clearly put effort into picking this house—only one way to leave: force your way out.
William Zamora was off to the side, starving. He was an athlete, burned through calories fast and ate a lot. Hearing Desmond mutter all afternoon, he finally frowned and said, "Cut it out. The more you talk, the hungrier I get. Even if Chloe Winston comes, can one person take out the 20 zombies outside? Besides, the crew said there are 50 zombies in the town. If she comes, it’s just a death mission."
"I’ll say what I want. If you don’t like it, cover your ears and don’t listen." Desmond rolled his eyes. Anyway, all the cameramen in the room were recording for broadcast; he wasn’t afraid of anyone.
"Quit howling. Keep it up and I’ll throw you out to feed the zombies." Constantine spoke coldly. The man opened those ink‑dark, deep eyes, his gaze sharp and warning as he looked at Desmond. "You keep watch by the window. At dusk, when they loosen up, we break out by force."
They’d pushed through almost a week already, finally endured the bumpy drive to come record this show, only to not see that soft, cute little girl. Constantine’s mood was a bit foul.
"Forcing our way out is a dead end. You’ve all felt the production team’s pervy level these days. If they decide to be completely unreasonable, stack themselves up like human pyramids and rush us with open mouths, nobody’s getting away." Charles Taylor disagreed. "I can handle three no problem, but there’s a whole pack outside. This game’s rules are malicious towards us from the start."
"I’ll force my way out alone. You guys lock the doors and windows. Wait for me to come back with weapons and supplies." Constantine spoke coolly and domineeringly. The men in the room all paused in their breathing and turned to look at him in unison.
Nani? A pampered business tycoon wants to 1‑v‑20 his way out?
Desmond was the first to burst out laughing, clutching his stomach and rolling around as he sneered, "Who the hell can’t talk big? Constantine Stewart, you think you’re Superman or Doctor Strange?"
"You want to be the first one eliminated?" Charles Taylor frowned. "Maybe we can wait until midnight and break out while they’re resting."
Before Charles could finish, the show’s director, Daniel, picked up a loudspeaker with a beaming smile and said, "Here’s a quick announcement: for a good work‑rest balance, filming time is from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. Which means everyone rests at night, and all actions taken during that time are considered invalid actions."
"Shit." Charles Taylor cursed under his breath, his face going dark.
Constantine let out a short, mocking laugh. So much for sneaking out while the zombies slept at night.
"We do it my way. We’ve already wasted so much time—no idea how the female guests are doing now." The man smiled lazily and unhurriedly. He missed little Chloe. Her courage was tiny; she got so scared watching zombie movies she’d burrow into his arms. He didn’t know if those shameless zombies out there would scare her.
Constantine hadn’t originally planned to make a move, but in the end, he was still a bit worried about the little girl.
Everyone was speechless for a moment. He was talking as if he’d already made it out alive.
"It’s almost six, half an hour left." Desmond checked the time and snarked, "I’ll be waiting for you to bring back supplies."
Constantine stood up. His tall, lean figure circled the room once as he drawled, "Desmond, check which side has the fewest zombies. I’ll tell you how to get a full meal tonight without lifting a finger."
Desmond was already so hungry he was half‑stupid. He froze for a second. "Huh?"
Constantine hooked the corner of his lips, his refined, jade‑like features tinged with a cool, noble aloofness. He picked up a box of marbles from the floor and said blandly, "Hmm?"
Desmond snapped back to himself, rubbed his flat stomach, and said, "Hold on, I’ll go upstairs and check for you."
"There’s only 6 left in the yard, 5 at the front door, 4 behind the house, 3 on the east side, and only 2 on the west. West side’s the least." Desmond ran downstairs and reported.
"After six o’clock, just swagger out and go ask the crew for food, got it?" Constantine’s gaze deepened as he spoke in a low voice.
Since the crew had said filming time was 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., and everything outside that window was invalid, they could just swagger past the zombies, go find supply packs or directly ask the crew for food. You get bitten and die, you respawn infinitely—perfectly fine.
Desmond slapped his thigh, so happy he almost burst into tears. When it came to shamelessness, who could out‑shameless Constantine Stewart? This idea was peak shameless.
"Nice one. We finally don’t have to starve." Desmond hadn’t even finished, when he saw Constantine had already opened the door and walked out in broad daylight. He was instantly dumbfounded and rushed to the front door with Charles Taylor and the others.
Constantine yanked the door open without warning. The zombies in the yard, still in the middle of their robot dance routine, all froze with a dumb look. After a three‑second lag, they were just about to pounce when the man’s lips curled in a cold smile. The marbles in his hand flew out one after another, and in a chorus of yelps, 2 of the 6 dropped. The remaining 4 clutched their faces while the elegant, refined man shot forward like a leopard, vaulted over the 6 zombies, and nimbly scaled the west wall of the yard, disappearing from sight.
The whole thing took less than a minute.
Desmond’s jaw dropped so wide he could’ve swallowed a duck egg. Charles Taylor, seeing the zombies finally react and about to rush into the house, quickly shut the door and locked it. His chest was heaving as he breathed hard, a trace of bitterness on his face.
Constantine had said he’d trained for two years; that kind of skill definitely wasn’t from some basic training. No wonder he’d spent the afternoon resting with his eyes closed, calm and unhurried. If he wanted out, it really wasn’t hard at all.
The cameraman assigned to follow Constantine, left locked in the house, was still in a daze. The hell just happened? How did I blink once and lose my guest?
What kind of bullshit operation was that?
"Am I blind? Did I just see Constantine Stewart run out?" Desmond grabbed Charles Taylor in shock.
"Fast. Way too fast. Faster than my 100‑meter sprint." Athlete William Zamora was also heavily traumatized, muttering to himself.
"Move, I gotta go find my guest, or they’ll dock my pay." The cameraman on follow duty said with tears in his voice. "Edit this part out. I didn’t say anything."
And after that wave of bullshit OP, Mr. Stewart became the first "unregistered" guest to shake off his dedicated cameraman. Right now, nobody had a clue where he was.