AKs in hand.
"Sweet Dreams" by Marilyn Manson blasting at full volume, echoing off the soundproofed walls, so loud the windows vibrate like the bodies about to drop.
The massacre begins. The smell of burnt gunpowder filling the air, hot blood splattering across my face like red rain, screams blending with the music into a hellish remix.
Fujimoto Kenji, the bully who always kicked me in the locker room, tries to throw a chair—three shots to the chest, blood gushing like a fountain, he collapses gurgling.
Aoyama Yuki, the cute girl who laughed at my perfect grades, hides under a desk—smoke grenade rolls over, explodes in blinding fog, shot to the back of the head while she coughs, brains splattering the floor like red jelly.
Class rep Tanaka Hiroshi tries to negotiate, "Please, we can talk this out"—Hana slices his throat with a box cutter while singing "la-la-la" along with the beat, arterial blood spraying the wall like abstract graffiti.
Two idiots, Sato and Yamada Jr. (the teacher's son), try to break the window—I shoot their legs first, bones exploding like fireworks, they collapse screaming, then headshots, brains painting the glass like modern art. As I fire, I comment: "Glass recycling is important, kids… too bad you won't be recycled."
In 4 minutes and 12 seconds, the classroom turns into a slaughterhouse—bodies piled up, blood flowing across the floor like a red river, the stench of burnt flesh and gunpowder mixed with urine and vomit.
28 students + 1 teacher = 29 bodies.
We waltz among the corpses, feet slipping in blood, laughing like it's the best date of our lives.
Hana jumps into my arms.
— Best. Monday. Ever!