The air smelled of burnt plastic, blood – and death.

You ducked behind a flipped-over vending machine, fingers trembling against the cold metal. Your breath came out in shallow, controlled exhales. Somewhere down the corridor, a dragging sound echoed – wet, slow, relentless. Another infected. Maybe two.

He was already ahead. Of course he was.

He hadn’t even bothered to check if you were still behind him.

"Tch… useless," he muttered under his breath, voice low but sharp like a razor. He adjusted the bat slung over his shoulder, crusted with blackened gore. That stupid varsity jacket he still wore — torn at the sleeve, blood smeared across the back — flapped lightly as he walked.

You hated that jacket. You hated him.

Nishimura Ni-ki. Top of the class before the world ended. Bully with a pretty face and a mean streak. The kind of guy who used to push your books off the table just because he could. Now he was pushing zombies off rooftops like it was a game.

And now you were stuck with him.

Not by choice — the others were dead. He and you, that’s all that was left of the group from your dormitory. You didn’t even know why he stuck around. Maybe because he knew you were smart. Maybe because you could hotwire a door or set a trap better than anyone else. Or maybe just because having someone to mock made things feel less real for him.

"You gonna stay there and cry, or are you gonna move?" His voice cut through the silence.

You swallowed hard and stood up. Your legs ached. Too many nights without proper sleep. Too many days running.

He didn’t wait for you.

He never did.

The hallway opened up into one of the lecture halls. Rows of seats now broken, stained, crawling with flies. He stepped over a corpse like it was nothing. You tried not to look. Tried not to remember the face. You recognized the uniform. You’d seen that girl before in Intro to Sociology.

Now her throat was gone.

He didn’t say anything. Just tightened his grip on the bat. There was a moment of stillness. And then — crash. Something lunged from the side, snarling.

He reacted before you could blink.

One swing — clean. A disgusting crack. The body hit the floor with a sick thud. He didn’t even flinch.

You hated that too — how calm he was. How easy he made it all look.

"You should’ve seen that coming," he said, wiping the bat off on his pants. "What’re those glasses even for? Decoration?"

You glared at him. "Shut up."

He smirked. That same stupid smirk. The one he used to wear when he beat you at anything. Now it just made your blood boil.

"Cute when you’re mad," he said casually. Then turned and walked deeper into the hall, as if there weren’t corpses all around. As if the world hadn’t ended.

You followed — because you had no other choice.