Alright. One more time. One more clean run-through, like I'm rehearsing for a play where the audience tries to eat me.
I stood by the school entrance with my bag hanging from one shoulder, staring up at Fujimi High like it was a boss arena and not a building full of teenagers and future corpses. The facade looked normal—sunlight on windows, students filtering in, the usual morning noise—yet my brain kept overlaying it with the memory of blood on tiles and bodies in hallways. It was like living in a double exposure.
Today's targets were simple, at least on paper.
Kohta Hirano.
And athletic equipment—specifically something long, blunt, and socially acceptable enough that no one would ask why I had it before society collapsed.
A bat.
A normal baseball bat, too, because there's a reason it works. Don't fix it if it ain't broken, and in my case, the "it" was hopefully zombie skulls.
The school definitely had bats. I'd seen them used in activities, and in the anime Takashi practically adopted one like it was a stray dog. The problem wasn't existence. The problem was access. The storage shed on the track side was locked most of the time, and the moment the panic started, that entire outdoor area would become a stampede funnel. Going out there when everyone decided to become a herd animal was a "no" so hard it could be used as a weapon.
Which left me with two options.
Option one: suck up to the gym teacher, help carry equipment, get left alone long enough to "borrow" a bat.
Option two: find another way in.
Both options offended me spiritually, but the first one offended me personally.
With that thought, I started toward the left side of the school, where P.E. happened and where the concrete storage building squatted beside the track like a depressed bunker. It wasn't impressive. It looked less like "school facility" and more like "run-down apartment that gave up on life."
I circled behind it, checking my surroundings the way you do when you're about to commit a small crime that will later be morally upgraded into "survival preparedness." Back here was a narrow strip between the shed and the perimeter wall—an alley just wide enough for a couple of people to squeeze through if they hated each other.
And there it was.
A window.
Wide open.
Like it was mocking the idea of effort.
I stared at it, then exhaled a laugh. "Well. Guess I won't be bootlicking any teachers after all. Thank you, mysterious force of poor security."
The window itself was small, maybe forty to fifty centimeters wide, and just high enough to be annoying. I was already shifting my bag off my shoulder, preparing to jump and grab the sill, when the school bells rang.
Of course they did.
Timing was, as always, a cruel god.
I looked at the open window one last time like I was making a promise. Later. Then I slipped out of the alley and headed for class.
On the way, I kept scanning for a hiding spot—somewhere I could stash a bat once I had it. Something easy to reach, something not suspicious. I found nothing. Just lockers and hallways and far too many eyes.
My own locker was technically an option, but it was not where I wanted my lifeline to be. It was inconveniently placed, far enough that if things went sideways I'd have to sprint to it while the world collapsed behind me. I didn't want "my weapon" to be a quest objective.
I made it into class, sat down, and tried to look like a normal student instead of someone mentally rehearsing head trauma.
Kohta was my other target. I didn't even know where his classroom was yet, but I didn't need to. The school gates were the only real exit, and Kohta didn't strike me as the type to teleport. If I waited at the gates and "accidentally" bumped into him—dropping some printed shotgun manuals, maybe—there was a good chance I could hook him into conversation without looking like I was stalking him.
The teacher walked in and started the lesson, and I did my best imitation of a functioning teenager. I paid attention just enough to avoid becoming a teacher's project again, because being singled out by authority figures was, in my experience, a reliable way to die early in both fiction and reality.
An hour and some change later, the bell rang. I stood, stretched, and immediately saw the stairs that led up to the roof.
Tempting. The roof was a classic stash spot. But it was also where Takashi and company congregated later. And while I didn't have anything against Rei personally, I had absolutely no desire to be within conversational radius of her pre-apocalypse hysteria. Also, Takashi still liked her, and I was not about to step into that emotional minefield just to hide a stick.
So no roof.
I drifted through the hall, scanning again. Lockers, lockers, lockers. Nothing else.
"Do I really have to put it in my locker?" I muttered, leaning back against a window and letting my neck crack as I rolled my head side to side.
If I couldn't hide the bat somewhere else, maybe I could change lockers. Break my lock, tell the office it wasn't working, get reassigned. These lockers used combination locks—meaning there had to be a record somewhere with every locker's code. If I could get my hands on that record, I could pick a locker closer to my class, one I could reach quickly.
I was halfway through considering how many felonies that plan would become if I followed it to its logical end, when something clicked.
Air conditioning.
Air vents.
I blinked.
Then I turned my head and started scanning like a hunting dog.
And there—high on the wall—was a small rectangular metal vent cover. Not big, but long enough. If the vent ran horizontally, I could slide a bat in there and no one would be the wiser.
I backtracked toward my classroom and spotted another vent not far away, about half a classroom's distance from my door.
Perfect.
Now I just needed a screwdriver.
Luckily, the school had that construction room—the one Kohta used in canon to build his homemade gun. If it was unlocked in the anime, odds were good it was unlocked in real life too, because institutions loved to save money on common sense.
I moved quickly, keeping my pace casual enough not to attract attention, and after ten minutes of searching I found the room.
Unlocked.
Of course.
I slipped inside, rifled through drawers and shelves with the practiced care of someone who had watched too many "how to burgle responsibly" videos, and found what I needed: a long flathead screwdriver. Long enough to serve as a last-ditch weapon, and flat enough to work even if the vent screws were the wrong type.
I pocketed it.
"Yoink."
And yes, I was having way too much fun with this.
Back in class, I stashed it in my bag so I wouldn't accidentally self-stab during math. The rest of the day passed in the usual haze of lessons and bells, but during breaks I made quick detours to the shed's back alley to confirm the window was still open.
It was.
Lady Luck was flirting with me.
Then came P.E., and the teacher who showed up to run it was…
Teshima.
I stared at him, deadpan, and internally thanked the open window again. If I had to deal with that man longer than necessary, I might voluntarily walk into the zombie horde out of spite.
As we moved out to the track, I realized something else: Takashi's class was also out there.
Meaning Kohta was nearby.
Rei was there too, acting like a pink-haired firecracker that had been thrown into a room full of gasoline fumes. Hisashi hovered around her like a loyal satellite, and the two of them were so sweet together my teeth actually hurt.
Takashi wasn't there, of course. The man's schedule was built around suffering.
P.E. itself was almost insulting at this point. Between my training and sheer paranoia-fueled discipline, the exercises felt like warm-up stretches. By the time we finished, I'd barely broken a sweat, while some of my classmates looked like they were preparing to meet their ancestors.
As students wandered off toward the changing rooms, I stood there weighing my options.
If I volunteered to gather the equipment cart, I could hide a bat outside and retrieve it later without infiltrating the shed.
But volunteering meant spending time near Teshima.
Which meant enduring Teshima.
While I debated whether survival was worth that, I glanced toward Takashi's class and noticed something odd.
They'd already left.
And no one was gathering their equipment.
Before I could process why, Teshima's voice tore across the field like a bullhorn possessed by rage.
"GRAYWALL! IF YOU'RE GONNA STAND THERE LIKE A DORK THEN START PICKING UP THE BALLS BEFORE I PICK YOU BY THE BALLS!"
Laughter erupted around me.
I blinked slowly.
Graywall.
I didn't know whether to be offended or impressed by how consistently he could be wrong.
"It's Greywald," I muttered under my breath, then immediately followed it with, I think. My identity here still felt like a jacket that didn't quite fit.
Still, he was going to be dead soon.
I decided that was a healthy coping mechanism and started gathering equipment.
We loaded the cart, and Teshima led the way to the shed like a prison guard escorting me to a cell.
I needed him gone.
Fast.
He unlocked the shed and turned, barking orders with the enthusiasm of a man who enjoyed the sound of his own authority.
"Put the balls in the ball basket and the bats on the bat racks. Hurry up, Sepifer. I don't got all day, I'm in a hurry."
Don't got all day, he said.
Wonderful.
I walked to the big ball basket, and with the grace of a dying deer, I "accidentally" stumbled into it.
Chaos erupted.
Balls bounced and rolled and scattered in every direction, escaping like they'd been waiting their whole lives for this moment. Teshima's scream hit a pitch I didn't know humans could reach without glass breaking nearby.
He shouted my name four times in four different incorrect forms, and I had to physically bite the inside of my cheek to avoid laughing. If I inhaled, I would explode.
"YOU GODDAMN STUPID FOREIGNER! GET THE DAMN BALLS! I'M NEVER GONNA LEAVE NOW—KYOKO IS WAITING FOR ME!"
Ah.
Kyoko.
I could work with that.
I straightened, putting on my most obedient expression.
"Sir, this was my fault," I said. "You can give me the keys and go if you want."
He stared like I'd offered to hand him the moon.
"Boy, are you fucking stupid? Why would I give YOU the keys when you can't even put a goddamn ball in a basket?!"
"If I lose the keys, it's my responsibility," I said, voice mild. "And, sir… won't you miss your meeting with Miss Kyoko if you stay?"
His eye twitched.
I could practically see the internal debate: rage versus hormones.
After a long, painful pause, he snarled, "You lose the keys, I'll see to it you get expelled, Garrywall."
And then he threw the keys at me and stormed out like he was fleeing a demon.
The moment he was gone, I broke.
A laugh burst out of me so hard my stomach cramped. I doubled slightly, wheezing, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes.
It was worth it.
So unbelievably worth it.
When I finally got myself under control, I started collecting balls again, methodically this time, all while keeping one eye on the bat rack like it was treasure.
I was ten minutes into the cleanup when a cart rolled into view through the open shed door.
My first instinct was dread.
If it was Saya, she'd verbally skin me alive the moment she saw the mess, and she'd probably be right to do it.
But it wasn't Saya.
It was Kohta.
He pushed the cart slowly, head down, looking like a man carrying the weight of the world and all its homework assignments.
For a moment I just watched him.
This was my chance.
I stepped out of the shed and leaned against the doorframe, casual.
"Hey," I called. "Bit late for the party, but come on in. We've got balls."
Kohta blinked up at me, confused. "Huh… what… what do you mean?"
"I knocked the basket over," I admitted, gesturing behind me. "Sent them flying. You missed Teshima's opera performance—Viking helmet and all."
Kohta's eyes flicked inside, taking in the scattered remnants of chaos.
"Oh."
His voice was small.
I kept my tone light, but I watched him carefully. "So why are you late anyway? If I hadn't made a mess, you'd have been locked out."
He hesitated, eyes darting left and right before dropping to his hands on the cart handle.
That reaction told me more than words could.
"They dumped you with cleaning duty," I said, flatly.
Kohta flinched. "N-No, they didn't… I just…"
Yeah.
Sure.
I folded my arms. "Relax. If they did dump it on you, they don't deserve your restraint. They deserve a twelve-gauge reminder to the kneecap."
It was meant half as joke, half as hook.
Kohta's head snapped up, and for a second, the meekness cracked—revealing the obsessive, technical mind beneath.
"Actually," he said, voice suddenly fast, "a .45 would be better if you're trying not to kill. A shotgun at that range could destroy the joint entirely. A broken kneecap from a .45 would cause intense pain, possible loss of function, and still allow survival, but would likely require intensive medical care—"
He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he'd said too much.
"…Sorry."
I stared at him for a beat, then let my eyebrow rise.
"That," I said, "was pretty amazing."
Kohta blinked, like he wasn't used to praise landing without a punchline.
"You went from two words per five minutes to an essay in ten seconds," I continued. "I'm impressed. You like guns?"
He nodded, cautious.
Good.
I gestured with my thumb at the remaining balls. "I still gotta finish collecting these. You can park your cart in the back—cleaned that corner at least."
Kohta murmured agreement and pushed the cart inside. As he started unloading, I kept working, building the rhythm of conversation like you do when you're trying to coax a stray animal into trusting you.
"Have you ever shot a gun?" I asked, like it was a casual question and not me poking the timeline with a stick.
Kohta nodded without looking up. "Ah… yes. I have. I've practiced with multiple weapons."
That matched canon enough to make my nerves ease slightly.
Interesting.
I wiped my palms on my pants and leaned back slightly, letting a grin threaten the corners of my mouth.
"Tell you what," I said. "We just met, like, ten minutes ago, but you seem cool, and the only reason you're here is because some idiots forced their work on you. So how about I help you turn the day around?"
Kohta hesitated. "No, it's okay… I don't really mind…"
"Oh," I said, deliberately casual, "I was going to head to a gun range after this. Figured you might want to come along. But if you've got other stuff—"
Something clattered.
I turned and saw Kohta standing frozen, a wooden bat slipping from his hands and hitting the floor.
"The… the gun range?" he stammered, eyes wide. "But you're not eighteen, you can't go there."
I smiled, raising my hands in mock surrender. "Normally, yes. But let's just say I convinced the owner to make an exception. No violence, no blackmail, nothing unsavoury."
That part was true-ish, though my wallet might argue the "unsavoury" part.
"So," I said, tilting my head, "you in? Or am I going by myself?"
Kohta's eyes practically glowed.
He tried to look cautious, like his brain was reminding him that trusting strangers was how people ended up in documentaries.
Then he exploded anyway.
"YES— I MEAN NO— I MEAN I'M COMING TOO!"
I bit down on a laugh.
Alright. Step one complete.
"Good," I said. "Once we're done here, wait for me outside the school gates. I have to return the keys to Sir Opera Singer first."
Kohta nodded so fast I worried his neck would snap, then bolted out of the shed like I'd promised him oxygen.
The moment he was gone, I sighed and finished unloading the last of his cart for him. Then I turned back to the bats.
Borrowing time.
I tested a few, checking weight, balance, condition, until I found one that felt right—solid, not warped, not splintered.
I took it.
I locked the shed behind me.
Please don't do inventory tomorrow, I begged the universe, knowing it wouldn't listen but asking anyway.
There was no way I could walk through the school carrying a bat without becoming the day's gossip. And there was definitely no way I could stand on a chair and unscrew a vent in a busy hallway without someone noticing.
So I did the only sensible thing.
I hid the bat in a nearby bush like I was burying evidence in a crime drama, then headed to the staff room to return the keys.
After handing them to the first teacher I saw—with a polite, "These are for Teshima"—I grabbed my things from class and lingered near the vent for a moment, watching the hallway traffic.
Too many people.
Too many passing teachers.
No time.
I left it and headed for the gates.
Kohta was waiting there, arms folded, staring at the ground like he was afraid he'd blink and I'd vanish.
You don't have to look that lost, buddy.
I approached and lifted a hand when I was close enough that it didn't feel like I was flagging down an aircraft.
"Hey there, commando," I said. "Ready to go shoot some guns?"
Kohta's mouth twitched into a smirk. "Always. Uh… by the way, my name is Kohta Hirano."
"Alexander Greywald," I said, then added, "You can call me Alexander. My surname's kind of a mouthful."
He nodded. "Then call me Kohta."
We did a quick handshake—western style—his grip tentative at first, then firmer when he realized I wasn't going to judge him for existing.
"Alright," I said, shifting my bag. "Let's go. We're walking."
Kohta's face immediately fell like I'd told him he had to sprint uphill barefoot. "Ehhh… must we? I kind of… hate walking."
"Yep," I said. "Just think of the guns."
Then I unzipped my bag and pulled out the printouts I'd prepared as bait earlier, handing them over. "And check this out."
Kohta's eyes locked onto the page like it was sacred scripture. "That's the manual for the Mossberg 500 Cruiser Pump Action Shotgun."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm gonna try to shoot something like that today, or one of its versions. Read it while we walk. Tell me if there's anything extra I should know."
Kohta nodded and immediately got absorbed.
I watched him for half a second, then sighed.
I should probably make sure he doesn't get run over.
We walked.
And the whole time, I had that weird, impossible sensation again—the one you get when reality does something it absolutely shouldn't, like seeing a fictional character beside you in the flesh, breathing the same air, dragging his feet in the same way he did in an anime.
Kohta was real.
And in two days, he'd also be necessary.
After about thirty minutes, he groaned softly. "Alexander… are we there yet?"
"Almost," I said. "Five to ten minutes."
While he trudged, I thought about the range.
Soundproof building. Thick walls. A place that could theoretically serve as a base after the outbreak.
But it was also a gun shop.
Meaning every survivor within miles would gravitate to it like moths to a flame.
Too unreliable to be a priority base.
Kohta looked up from the manual, nervous creeping into his expression. "Hey… are we really going to… you know, shoot any guns?"
I glanced at him. "If you think I'm lying, why did you come?"
He flinched. "S-Sorry. I didn't mean— It's just… you're being awfully kind. It's… weird for me."
I softened my voice without meaning to. "Don't worry. I'm not lying. And words are just words anyway. You'll see it for yourself."
Then I nudged the conversation forward. "So. Are you a good shot?"
Kohta scratched his cheek. "Ehh… I'm okay."
Okay my ass.
But I let it go.
We reached a small corner building with a plain storefront and a large window displaying crossbows and air rifles. Nothing flashy. No neon. The kind of place that didn't want attention.
Kohta stared at the display and started to open his mouth.
I raised a hand. "Good time to take a break."
He blinked. "Huh?"
"The range won't be open for another fifteen minutes," I said, checking my phone. "We arrived a bit early."
Kohta's eyes visibly pained. "We could go inside and look—"
"No," I said, steering him toward a bench. "We wait here."
He followed reluctantly, looking back at the storefront like a starving man watching someone eat.
I sat and leaned back. "So how did you learn so much about guns anyway?"
Kohta hesitated. "I read about them a lot. And I had a… friend who knew a lot. He taught me for a while. He was also the reason I managed to shoot some."
Friend. Interesting.
It didn't matter. The result did.
I nodded slowly. "I hope he taught you well. You'll need it."
Kohta blinked at that. "I will?"
"You'll see soon enough," I said, and let it hang there like a shadow he couldn't name yet.
My mind drifted, as it always did lately, to tonight.
The school. The vent. The bat. The creeping job of becoming a thief in advance so I could become less dead later.
If Kohta was as good as he should be, the owner would want a match.
And that was the second reason I'd brought Kohta.
Not just to bond.
But to make the owner invested.
Because here was the truth I hadn't said aloud: I had money—inheritance money, the kind that came with loneliness baked into the paperwork—and I'd already burned through a painful chunk of it to buy time at this range. The owner had agreed to my arrangement because the pay was good, and because he was foreign like me, and maybe because in a small way he liked the idea of being someone's secret advantage.
But my spending room was shrinking fast.
I couldn't afford to throw extra money at him for Kohta.
So I needed Kohta to be worth it.
When the time came, I stood and gestured. "Alright. Let's go."
Outside the store, I motioned for Kohta to wait and stepped inside alone.
The owner was at the register, fiddling with something, buzz cut, cargo pants, boots, plain white t-shirt. He looked up and gave me the exact stare of a man who had accepted a deal and didn't want it to get complicated.
"Last day," he said. "As per our agreement."
"It is," I said. "But I need to ask you something."
He folded his arms.
I nodded toward the door. "I've got a guy outside who might be a better shot than you. Want to check him out?"
The owner's mouth curved into a smirk. "A better shot than me. Kid, I shoot here daily."
"I'm serious," I said. "You check him out. If he's good enough to be fun, you let us stay and shoot. If he's a fluke, we leave and you close early. You already got paid. You lose nothing."
He tapped a finger against his temple, thinking.
Then he sighed like a man choosing entertainment over peace. "Fine. Bring him down. And then get ready to go home early."
I stepped back outside.
Kohta was still there, twiddling his thumbs, tense as if he expected someone to jump him.
"If I didn't know better," I thought, "I'd say he's about to panic."
Aloud, I said, "Alright. Sink or swim."
Kohta stepped inside, and his eyes immediately lit up. His head whipped left and right, taking in the displays like a kid in a candy store whose candy happened to be regulated.
"THAT… THAT'S THE REMINGTON 870—"
"And this is where I stop you," I said, turning the front sign from open to closed and locking the door. "You can drool over the hunting shotguns later. We're going downstairs."
The word "downstairs" worked like a spell. Kohta snapped out of his gun trance and followed me.
We reached a glass door to the range. Five stands. Long lanes. A spectator area with chairs and a small TV that displayed shots. A locked armoury door in the back.
The owner saw Kohta and immediately frowned.
"This your idea of a joke?" he said to me, voice sharp. "You said you found a GUY. That's a school kid."
"My offer still stands," I said calmly. "One shot. If he's not good, we leave. You save ammo. You go home early."
The owner dragged a hand down his face. "One shot. No more."
Kohta didn't even look at me. He stepped forward, posture shifting—like some switch had flipped.
"Show me what I'm using," he said, "and what I'm shooting."
I had to stop myself from laughing.
He's gone full commando. And thankfully not the no-pants kind.
The owner led him to the far lane and presented a rifle.
"This is a Remington Model 700," he said, "customized by me. One shot. Farthest target. Surprise me."
Kohta took it carefully, eyes scanning the scope, the stock, the build like he was reading a book in braille.
The owner walked back to the spectator chairs with a grin and dropped into one beside me.
"Well, kid," he said, hands laced behind his head, "it was fun working with ya. But you should learn not to make bets with things you don't understand."
Kohta crouched, adjusting himself against the stand.
"This is a Vortex Optics Viper PST," he murmured, voice low and focused, "custom stock… carbon and fiberglass… no bipod… I'll use the stand…"
The owner's grin slowly faded as he listened.
He leaned slightly toward me. "That kid's used a gun before."
"Yes," I said, letting my own grin show. "I did tell you he was good."
Kohta lifted a thumb. "I'm ready."
The owner nodded.
Kohta lowered his hand, breathed once, sighted, and fired.
The shot cracked through the soundproof room like a bell.
The TV flashed the result.
Bullseye.
The owner surged out of his seat like he'd been electrified. "Bullseye on his first try…"
He walked toward Kohta, eyes bright now, not mocking.
"Not bad, chubby," he said, and the insult sounded almost affectionate in his mouth. "Guess your friend was right."
He turned toward me. "Fine. He can stay. We'll have that match."
Kohta stepped back from the lane, expression glowing with joy so pure it was almost painful.
I clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Good job."
Kohta laughed awkwardly. "Ehehe… thanks."
The owner disappeared into the locked room and returned with three unmodified rifles and bags of ammo.
"Alright," he said. "Positions. I'm going to wipe the floor with you."
He explained the rules—forty-five minutes, breaks every fifteen, scoring by rings, ammo limits—and then we took our places.
Kohta crouched. The owner stood upright like a show-off. I braced my elbows on the stand and settled my cheek against the stock, heart steady.
"Three," the owner said.
"Two."
"One."
"Fire."
The range filled with rhythmic cracks, the sound a drumbeat inside a sealed world.
I wasn't sure how well I was doing. Targets at that distance were small, and the screen was the only judge. But the act itself—breathing, aiming, firing—was calming in a way that felt wrong given what tomorrow promised.
When the first break came, we gathered in the spectator room and checked scores.
The owner was good.
Kohta was terrifying.
And I was… decent. Not embarrassing. Not glorious. But decent enough that if a corpse wandered into my sights, there was a fair chance it would stop wandering.
The owner snickered at me. "Kid, you're falling behind."
I smiled through my teeth. "Tell me that when you're winning. You're still in second place."
He laughed, actually laughed, and for a moment the world felt normal.
The second round came, more shots, more rhythm, and by the end Kohta had pulled ahead decisively, leaving the owner grinning like a man who'd finally gotten a real game.
When it was over, the owner waved us off. "I didn't expect this much mess. Get out. I've gotta clean."
We headed upstairs. Kohta immediately stopped to stare at the shotguns again like he was saying goodbye to loved ones.
"You just can't have enough, can you," I said, unlocking the front door.
"Nope," he said, still looking back.
Outside, we walked together, the late afternoon air warm on our faces.
"So," I asked, "did you have fun?"
Kohta clapped his hands once, delighted. "That was amazing. Most fun I've had in ages."
Then his gaze dropped, shy again. "If you… come again… could I join again?"
"Sure thing," I said automatically, and then the lie sat on my tongue like ash.
Sure thing.
In two days, the fun would be screaming and blood and running.
But I didn't say that.
We reached an intersection where the road split. Kohta pointed up a hill. "My house is that way."
I extended a hand, and he hesitated only a moment before shaking it.
"By the way," Kohta said, curiosity flickering, "what's the owner's name?"
I shrugged. "No idea. He never told me."
Kohta looked baffled. "He lets you use his range and you don't know his name?"
"He doesn't know mine either," I said, glancing back toward the building in the distance. "We had an agreement. That didn't make us buddies."
If anything, it made him a man I was quietly worried about.
Because tomorrow didn't care about agreements.
I checked the sky. "It's getting late. I haven't even opened a book today."
Kohta's eyes widened in horror. "CRAP—HOMEWORK!"
He bolted uphill like he'd been shot with fear itself, footsteps fading as I turned the other way.
Wonder how long he'll last up that hill.
Then I sighed.
I had my own homework.
2 days until Z-Day — Night.
By the time I got home, the sun had gone down and the apartment felt like a quiet box suspended above a sleeping city. My desk was set like a staging area: screwdriver, two belts, half-face mask, gloves, flashlight.
I didn't say I was going to break into a school.
I said I was going to do a "visit."
Because language mattered when you wanted to pretend you were still a good person.
I pulled out a black hooded jacket, checked my boots, and ran through the plan again.
Jump the fence.
Find a way into the building.
Unscrew the vent.
Stash the bat.
Leave no trace.
In theory, simple.
In practice, life was a sadistic game designer.
Before going out, I stepped to the convenience store, because apparently I'd decided my final peaceful days should include overpriced bread. I bought the most expensive loaf they had and ate it like it was a ceremonial offering to the gods of bad decisions.
Back home, I checked the time.
Midnight.
1 day until Z-Day.
The last day with no brain-munching corpses had begun.
I left my keys under the front mat—too noisy to carry, and if I got caught climbing a fence with keys jangling, I deserved whatever happened to me—and started walking toward the school.
It took longer than I wanted because I moved carefully, listening, watching.
When I reached the front gate, it was locked, obviously.
So I circled the fence until I reached the shed side, pulled on gloves and mask, hood up, and tossed the screwdriver through the bars.
Then I climbed.
Slowly, carefully, lowering myself so I didn't land with a thud. I hit the ground in a crouch, heart pounding, and immediately moved toward the bushes.
The bat was still there.
Relief washed through me so hard I almost laughed.
I strapped it to my thigh with the belts, hugging the school wall as I moved, keeping to shadows and trees.
No guards at first.
Too quiet.
The front door was locked. Nurse's office window was locked.
I was starting to convince myself there were no guards when a flashlight beam swept around a corner.
I dove into greenery like it was my long-lost lover, pressed low, and watched a short chubby guard shuffle past, dragging his feet like he hated his job and maybe his entire life.
I tailed him from cover until I saw a second flashlight. Two guards, two routes. They met near the entrance, exchanged something—keys—and swapped directions.
So that was the pattern.
When one guard stepped outside and sat on the bench, earbuds in, face lit faintly by his phone, I took my chance.
I moved past him so slowly it felt like time thickened. The ten longest seconds of my life stretched out as I slipped to the door, opened it, and eased inside, never once letting my eyes leave the guard's head.
He didn't look up.
His singing—muffled and awful—continued.
Inside, I moved quickly. No chair at the stairs, only a mop and a bucket.
I flipped the bucket, tested it, climbed onto it, unscrewed the vent bolts, pocketed two, loosened the others enough to open the cover.
Then I slid the bat into the vent as gently as if I were putting a baby to bed, praying it didn't drop vertically and vanish into the school's guts forever.
It fit.
I almost cried.
I screwed the vent back with one bolt so it looked normal, leaving two bolts inside the vent for easy access tomorrow.
Then I waited—listened—tracked footsteps and flashlight echoes until the inside guard's route moved away.
Leaving through the front felt risky.
So I slipped to a first-floor window with a lock I tested twice, discovered it could latch automatically from the outside, and used it as my exit.
Out, over the fence, screwdriver retrieved, mask off once I was clear.
I ran.
Not far—just enough to avoid being the weird hooded shadow near a school at midnight.
At a distant alley, I finally stopped and exhaled.
"Ninja mode off," I whispered. "Beep."
Back home, I showered like I could wash away the fact that I'd become the kind of person who breaks into schools at night.
Then I checked the time.
Three a.m.
Four hours of sleep.
If I was lucky.
1 day until Z-Day — Morning.
My alarms assaulted me like a coordinated military strike.
I woke up furious, silenced them, then remembered I was the one who had chosen the most unbearable sound possible because I didn't trust myself to wake up otherwise.
Past-me was a monster.
After splashing water on my face—nearly drowning myself in the sink—I dressed, shoved the screwdriver into my bag for tomorrow, grabbed breakfast from the convenience store, and headed to school.
The city looked normal.
No sirens.
No panicking pedestrians.
No signs of the end.
Which somehow made it worse.
In class, I slumped at my desk and tried to figure out whether the timeline was following the anime or manga. Takashi's habit of haunting the stairs leaned anime. His visible depression leaned anime. The deciding factor would be tomorrow: Morita, or no Morita.
Classes dragged. I fought sleep. Bells rang. I checked the vent in passing. Still untouched.
Takashi was on the stairs like clockwork, moping.
I left him alone.
During the longer break, I went to the gym, ran laps to wake myself up, changed shirts, and tried not to laugh aloud at the memory of the Humvee's ventilation issues and certain… canine-related accidents that probably made Takashi smell like regret later.
Students stared.
I straightened my jacket and walked faster.
Smooth.
Later, I tried to go find Kohta after classes, but I saw Saeko in the hallway and instantly forgot how to be a person. My brain tried to imagine walking up to her and saying something normal, failed catastrophically, and then Saya's voice exploded behind me.
"HEY! You're blocking the way. Move!"
I jumped, turned, and found Saya glaring like she was considering whether murder was socially acceptable.
I stepped aside, apologized, and she stormed past with only a disgusted sound.
It was a perfect interaction.
Ten out of ten.
Would ruin my chances again.
I didn't go into Kohta's class after that. Instead I sat outside eating a bun, watched Rei and Hisashi being a couple, and saw Takashi staring from the stairs like a man being stabbed slowly by romance.
Girls were weird.
Life was weirder.
When school ended, I checked the vent again, then left.
At home, I planned a last shopping run—bandages, a better bag, map, food.
I still had money—inheritance money—but it wasn't infinite, and the range deal plus supplies had taken a real bite out of it. If nothing happened tomorrow, I'd have spent a chunk of my future on paranoia.
But I was done gambling on "maybe."
I bought a tear-resistant black backpack with chest and waist straps, tested it so thoroughly in the store that the employee looked like he was deciding whether to call security, then bought a compass, flashlight, and a Swiss army knife because apparently I was capable of forgetting basic survival items until an awkward stranger reminded me.
I bought food.
I bought bandages.
I considered electronics, then decided against anything solar-power-bank-related because of the H.A.N.E. possibility later, and because the apocalypse had a way of turning expensive gadgets into dead weight.
Back home, I packed the new bag with clothes, socks, underwear, and enough supplies to make my bed look like a military staging area. I tested the bag for noise under load like I was auditioning it for a stealth mission.
It passed.
Night fell.
The city remained calm.
And that calm felt like the last deep breath before drowning.
I sat at my computer, stared at the files I'd collected, the plans I'd written, and decided this was terrible for my mental health.
So I did what any rational person does before the end of the world.
I watched zombie movies.
For hours.
Because irony was apparently part of the survival kit.
Then I ate, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.
Right as the clock hit midnight.
Z-Day.