The hours dissolved as the sun began its slow descent, bleeding across the horizon. When the final chime of the school bell rang out in a rhythmic, triple-beat staccato, the classroom transformed into a flurry of activity. The instructor's formal dismissal was almost drowned out by the jubilant rustle of bags and the high-spirited chatter of students planning their evening escapades.
Directly behind Rin Kuga, Utaha Kasumigaoka rose. She slung her designer bag over her shoulder, her face set in a mask of rigid concentration, her brow furrowed as if mentally editing a difficult chapter. She bypassed Rin without a single word, her movements swift and fluid, acting as though the morning's rooftop confrontation had been nothing more than a fever dream.
Rin watched her departure with a faint, knowing smile. She's a different breed than the version I remember, he mused. He had to admit, repeatedly labeling her "chubby" was a stroke of excessive cruelty. In this academy, Utaha was a paragon—a woman whose beauty and intellect drew men into her orbit like moths to a flame. She was the "Perfect Dream" for thousands. And yet, in his presence, that legendary allure seemed to hit an invisible wall. It wasn't that she lacked charm; it was simply that his horizon was already crowded with goddesses of equal magnitude.
Meanwhile, Utaha walked alone, her footsteps heavy with a rare, gnawing self-doubt. Is it possible? Is my charm actually fading? The thought was a bitter pill. That insufferable Rin Kuga had remained entirely unmoved by her proximity, her scent, and her deliberate provocations.
The more she tried to push him out of her mind, the more he anchored himself there. Each step back to her apartment was punctuated by a fresh wave of irritation. She gripped the strap of her bag until her knuckles turned white, her mind already weaving a complex tapestry of retribution. She would make him see. She would make him break.
While the rest of the school trickled out, the corridors succumbed to a heavy, amber silence. The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the floors, painting everything in the melancholic hues of twilight.
A lone figure moved through the quiet hallways. She was a woman of breathtaking, almost ethereal beauty. Her dark hair flowed like a river of ink over shoulders draped in the school's blazer, her skin as pale and flawless as freshly fallen snow. She carried herself with a quiet dignity that suggested she belonged more on a silver screen than in a classroom.
She was Mai Sakurajima—a name that, in Rin's previous world, was synonymous with a beauty worth living for. She had developed a habit of staying late, choosing to go home only when the crowds had thinned. It was a tactical retreat; the constant weight of public scrutiny was a burden she preferred to avoid.
Step. Step. Step.
The silence of the hallway was abruptly broken. A male student, his features contorted into a grotesque, unnatural leer, stepped into her path. He extended a trembling hand, blocking her way.
"Cough... Urgh..."
A wet, guttural sound bubbled up from the boy's throat.
Mai stopped, her expression remaining remarkably calm. She had dealt with obsessed fans and strange encounters many times before. She looked him in the eye, her voice clear and melodic.
"Can I help you with something, student?"
The boy looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wide. A twisted, jagged grin split his face.
"Yes... I have business with you, Senpai!"
"HAAAH!"
The boy let out a harrowing, skyward roar. His body began to heave and buckle, muscle and bone expanding with the sickening sound of wet leather being torn. In a matter of seconds, the student was gone, replaced by a grey, leathery nightmare with vast, membranous wings and sharp, obsidian fangs.
A Bat Gurongi.
"Heh... Linto," the monster hissed, its voice like sandpaper on bone. "Just one more human female, and my rank will rise. You'll do nicely."
Mai's breath hitched, dying in her throat as the boy's skin split like overstretched parchment. The sound was sickening—a wet, rhythmic crunching of bone being reshaped by something unnatural. Her knees buckled for a fraction of a second, the sheer, evolutionary terror of facing a predator turning her blood to ice.
This isn't a stunt. This isn't a script.
As the Bat Gurongi let out its guttural hiss, the scent of stagnant air and old blood hit her, snapping her out of her paralysis. Her survival instinct, sharp and jagged, overrode the scream tearing at her lungs. She didn't think; she didn't plan. She simply threw herself backward, her heels skidding on the polished floor as she spun around and fled into the deepening shadows of the hallway, her vision tunneling as her heart thundered like a trapped
bird against her ribs.