"So, where is Ayanokouji-kun, Arisu?"
The voice belonged to her father—the chairman of Advanced Nurturing High School.
He had been ousted from power not long ago, forced out through political machinations by a rival faction.
That rival was the same man behind the White Room, the same twisted visionary who had constructed an institution parallel to this one, only far more brutal, far more unhinged in its methodology.
Her father had lost the boardroom battle, but he hadn't lost his instincts.
And right now, those instincts were screaming that his daughter was hiding something.
Of course, the zombie outbreak was no secret to him.
The chaos spreading across Japan, the sudden disappearances, the quarantined zones—he had his sources.
What he didn't know was the full scope of what had been happening inside his own school.
And we had worked very hard to keep it that way.
Even with our knowledge, we couldn't stop it. We had tried. Quietly, efficiently, we had conducted clean-up operations whenever an infected student or staff member turned.
We swept through hallways after dark, disposed of bodies, sanitized scenes. But the virus didn't care about our discretion. It spread unpredictably, surfacing in random hosts without warning.
A cafeteria worker during lunch rush. A shopper at the nearby mall. A student in the middle of third period. There was no pattern, no way to detect carriers before they turned.
We were fighting blind, and the battlefield was our own home.
Arisu stood near the center of the warehouse, surrounded by her inner circle.
Beside her was Tomonari Mashima, Class A's homeroom teacher, one of the few adults who had been looped in from the very beginning.
Around them, scattered in tense clusters, were the school's authorities—administrators, security heads, staff members who had been deemed trustworthy enough to know the truth.
The warehouse, normally used for storage, had become an impromptu command center.
But before Arisu could even open her mouth to answer her father's pointed question about Kiyotaka Ayanokouji's whereabouts, another voice cut through the low murmur of the gathered adults.
"Chairman. We need to know what we're working with."
Kazuma Sakagami, Class C's homeroom teacher, stepped forward.
Behind him, a small group of students waited in the shadows of the stacked crates—his class's inner circle.
Ryueen Kakeru, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. Albert, a mountain of muscle at his side. Hiyori Shiina, quiet and watchful, her eyes scanning the room with an analyst's precision. Mio Ibuki, tense as a coiled spring, her usual aggression subdued into alertness.
They were here for the same reason as everyone else. Not just the teachers, not just the administrators—but the elite of each class.
From Class A, Class B, Class C, and Class D, only the most trusted, most capable, most essential individuals had been summoned.
The rest of the student body remained in the dark, deliberately.
You couldn't warn someone when you didn't know if they were already a ticking bomb. The virus didn't announce itself. It simply waited, then consumed.
The first incident had been three days ago.
Three days of chaos, of hushed evacuations, of elite members and high rankings being quietly extracted from Tokyo and relocated.
Some had been sent to military bases, buried deep underground where the virus couldn't reach.
Others were moved to naval strongholds, their families sheltered behind bulkheads and torpedo tubes.
A few had chosen isolation—remote islands, rural prefectures where population density was low and the risk of infection was manageable.
And then there were the ambitious ones, the ones already planning for the long haul.
They were building shelters in less-populated cities like Chiba, stockpiling supplies, preparing for a siege that might never end.
But here, in this warehouse, the immediate crisis was simpler: how do you fight something you can't see coming?
Kazuma Sakagami's voice was urgent, stripped of its usual classroom authority and replaced by something rawer—the desperation of a man who had seen too much in three days.
"Chairman," he pressed, stepping closer, his eyes darting between the former chairman and the gathered officials. "Do we have access to firearms? Or are we limited to blunt weapons when dealing with those… things?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
Behind him, Ryueen's gaze was fixed on the chairman, unblinking.
Albert's massive hands flexed at his sides. Hiyori's lips pressed into a thin line. Ibuki's hand rested near her waist, instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
They all knew what blunt weapons meant. They meant getting close. They meant risking infection with every swing. They meant fighting monsters with the tools of a medieval peasant while the world burned.
The warehouse waited for an answer.
Chairman Sakayanagi set aside his unspoken concerns about Ayanokouji's absence for the moment. There would be time for answers later—if there was a later. Right now, survival demanded clarity, not suspicion. He turned his full attention to Kazuma Sakagami, whose question still hung in the stale warehouse air.
"We have guns," Chairman Sakayanagi admitted, his voice measured but firm. The admission sent a ripple through the gathered crowd—a mixture of relief and renewed tension. "However, students are strictly forbidden from using them. Teachers and staff are also prohibited from accessing firearms for the time being. Our ammunition is extremely limited, and we cannot afford to waste a single round on training or panic. Only the highest authorities of this school and designated security enforcement personnel are permitted to carry and use firearms at this moment."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Then he clapped his hands sharply, the sound echoing off the metal walls.
"Everyone else—students, teachers, support staff—please proceed to the weapon crates. You will find blunt weapons: swords, baseball bats, crowbars, anything you feel comfortable holding and swinging. Take what you need and familiarize yourselves with the weight. You may need to use them sooner than you think."
The warehouse erupted into controlled chaos. The moment his hands came together, the crowd surged toward the stacked crates along the far wall. Wood creaked, metal clanged, and voices rose in a cacophony of urgent discussion as people grabbed whatever was within reach. A baseball bat here, a reinforced wooden sword there, a length of pipe wrapped in grip tape. Some grabbed traditional katanas from a separate crate—replicas, probably, but sharp enough to do damage. Others clutched fire axes or heavy wrenches, tools that could kill as easily as they could build.
Through the scramble, one figure remained motionless.
Ryueen Kakeru stood with his arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed not on the weapon crates, but on the Chairman's waist. Specifically, on the silenced pistol holstered there, partially hidden by his jacket. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes.
When the initial surge of movement had passed and the warehouse settled into a low hum of preparation, Ryueen finally spoke. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise like a blade.
"Chairman Sakayanagi."
The older man turned, meeting the student's cold gaze.
"Don't underestimate us," Ryueen continued, his tone flat but carrying an undercurrent of something dangerous—pride, maybe, or the memory of streets far more brutal than this school. "I can fight with a gun. I've fought plenty of people from the underworld before I ever transferred here. Albert and Mio can handle firearms too. Give us the guns. We're not going to freeze up when it matters."
Behind him, Albert gave a slow, deliberate nod, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the dim light. Mio Ibuki shifted, her hand flexing at her side, her eyes hard with agreement. They had seen violence before. They had caused violence before. Ryueen wasn't bluffing.
Chairman Sakayanagi regarded the Class C leader for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shook his head, a small, regretful motion.
"That is not a decision you get to make, Ryueen-kun. The school system is still in effect. Those rules exist for a reason—not to hold you back, but to ensure that when the guns run dry, we still have people standing. You'll get your chance. But not yet."
Before Ryueen could argue further, the Chairman raised his voice, addressing the entire warehouse.
"Everyone! Listen carefully!"
The noise died down. Faces turned toward him—students, teachers, staff, all waiting for the words that would either give them hope or crush it entirely.