Class D didn't linger longer in that blood-spattered room. The decision to follow Ayanokouji Kiyotaka's lead wasn't made through debate or democratic process, it was made through the brutal, instinctive recognition of who held the real power now.
The lone wolf who had spent two years lurking in the shadows, barely registering in anyone's consciousness, suddenly stood at the center of their world, and they followed because the alternative was unthinkable.
What a brutal irony.
The boy they had all ignored, dismissed, walked past without a second glance, had become their only hope of survival.
Of course, someone like Koenji followed for entirely different reasons. He strolled along at the edge of the group, maintaining perfect distance, his expression one of bored amusement rather than fear or gratitude.
He wasn't submitting to anyone—the very thought was laughable.
But the classroom had become an inelegant place to stay, cluttered as it was with the unconscious form of Haruki Yamauchi and the lingering stench of his pathetic ambitions. Koenji had standards.
He would not share space with that any longer than absolutely necessary.
The girls especially had no interest in remaining.
Yamauchi's speech—if it could be called that—had stripped away any pretense of safety.
Every woman in that room had heard him talk about what men deserved, what women owed, how the weak should spread their legs for the strong.
They had seen the look in his eyes when he undressed Kei Karuizawa with that greasy, invasive gaze. No one wanted to be in the same room when that bastard woke up, disoriented and angry and looking for someone weaker to take his humiliation out on.
Some of them even found themselves hoping—darkly, guiltily—that the zombies Ayanokouji's explosion had surely attracted would find their way to Yamauchi first.
One bite.
That's all it would take.
One bite and their problem would be solved forever.
Sae Chabashira followed as well, but she made no attempt to assert authority. She simply walked with them, observing, cataloguing, her expression giving nothing away.
She had heard the announcement too—Operation Epic Fury, led by Manabu Horikita himself. The former student council president, the legendary figure who was supposed to have graduated, was rallying the school.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Ike Kanji, who had positioned himself as Yamauchi's most loyal ally, folded like wet cardboard.
He shuffled along with the rest, eyes downcast, making himself as small as possible. Whatever courage he'd mustered earlier had evaporated the moment Sudo's bat connected with Yamauchi's face.
He had no desire to be next.
Hirata Yosuke walked in silence, his expression hollow. He had surrendered his role as class leader without a fight—had, in fact, been told by Ayanokouji himself that he was unfit for it.
And the worst part? He couldn't even disagree. Every word had been true. He had stood there, trembling, while Yamauchi humiliated his girlfriend. He had done nothing until someone else arrived to do it for him.
What kind of man was he? What kind of leader?
He didn't have answers.
Only silence.
Kei Karuizawa's legs moved before her brain caught up.
One moment she was frozen against the wall, still shaking from Yamauchi's assault; the next, she was pushing through the crowd, chasing after the brown-haired boy who had walked in and changed everything.
"Wait—!"
Ichika Amasawa's head snapped around, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
The younger girl—cute and utterly unassuming in appearance—stepped directly into Kei's path, and the force of her glare made Kei stumble to a halt.
It wasn't just anger in those eyes. It was something deeper.
Something territorial.
Kei shrank back instinctively, her survival instincts screaming warnings she didn't fully understand.
This girl—this younger, pretty girl who looked like she belonged on an idol stage—was suddenly the most terrifying person in the room.
Ayanokouji glanced back, taking in the scene with those flat, unreadable eyes.
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't assert authority with dramatic gestures. He simply spoke.
"Let her talk."
Ichika's jaw tightened.
Her hands clenched at her sides. For a terrible moment, it looked like she might argue—might actually defy him, right here, in front of everyone.
"Senpai..." Her voice was soft, almost pleading, but the undercurrent of venom was unmistakable. "She's just a weakling. A waste of—"
Ayanokouji didn't let her finish.
He simply turned away, walked past her as if she'd said nothing at all, and reached for Kei's hand.
His grip was firm.
Warm.
Certain.
"Come with me."
Kei's face flooded with color. Her heart, which had been hammering with fear moments before, now stuttered for entirely different reasons.
She nodded—a small, jerky, almost mechanical motion—and let him pull her along, her fingers curling around his like they'd found something precious they'd been searching for their whole lives.
Together, they walked.
Together, they left the rest behind.
Ichika Amasawa stood frozen in place.
Her eyes darkened.
The cute, innocent mask she wore so perfectly slipped for just a moment, revealing something cold and terrible beneath.
Not her.
The words echoed in her mind like a curse.
Not that weak, useless, ordinary bitch. Her. Of all people, her.
She watched them walk side by side—her senpai and that woman—and something inside her curdled. Her hands clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms, drawing thin crescents of blood.
She said nothing.
But her eyes promised everything.
This wasn't over. Not even close.
Behind them, the classroom door hung open, revealing the crumpled form of Haruki Yamauchi still unconscious on the floor. Blood pooled beneath his head, spreading slowly across the tiles.
No one went back for him.
No one even looked back.