"Emotion is a variable. Solve for survival."— Kazuma Aoki
The rain hadn't stopped in two days.
It whispered through the cracks of the shattered skylights and traced silver veins down the concrete walls of the engineering workshop. The generator's orange glow pulsed like a heart struggling to remember its rhythm, casting half-shadows across the bench — bolts, wire, a dented thermos, and a notebook written in impatient, almost violent handwriting.
Kazuma Aoki sat cross-legged on the floor, listening to the hum. The machine's rhythm wasn't quite steady, but close enough to pretend.
His modified nail gun rested beside him — ugly, functional, stubborn. Aluminum plating, reinforced chamber, pressure valve tuned by instinct more than math. Every weld carried his fingerprints, his refusal to stop when he should've slept. A weapon born of obsession, not anger.
He checked the fuel gauge. Two bars left. Eight hours of light, or two of welding. He did the math automatically, without thinking. Efficiency, never luxury.
Thirty-six hours since the campus went dark. Thirty-six hours of maps and ratios, sealing every entry point, timing the distant howls outside.
He didn't think about the others — the ones who hadn't been numbers fast enough. Emotion was noise; it cluttered the signal.
Then the radio crackled.
A burst of static, a voice cutting through:
"—to anyone still out there… this is Mike Warren… campus president, or whatever's left of him. Chemistry building secured for now. South entrance blocked. If you can hear this—"[static burst] "—repeat: Chemistry labs, east wing… survivors welcome."
Silence.
Kazuma stared at the speaker. The name echoed in the stale air — Mike Warren.
He remembered the man. Loud. Charismatic. Always moving too fast for physics to catch him. The kind who turned momentum into leadership — and chaos followed close behind.
Still, he had power, signal, order. However temporary.
Kazuma exhaled slowly, breath fogging in the dim light."If he can transmit, he can sustain," he murmured. "If he can sustain, he's useful."
He packed his tools — wrench, screwdriver, wire spool — and powered down the generator. The sudden silence felt heavier than sound.
Harness adjusted, nail gun slung across his chest, he recited the rule again, almost prayer-like:"Emotion is a variable. Solve for survival."
Then he opened the door.
The world outside smelled of rust, rain, and slow rot.
The storm had stripped the campus down to bones — trees like black ribs, glass glinting in puddles, streetlights flickering in the fog. He moved low and deliberate, counting each step.
They were out there — the infected. He could hear them between thunder cracks, that dragging rhythm that used to be footsteps. Sound first, then light. He'd tested the pattern.
He chose route C, the maintenance tunnels — longer, darker, quieter.
The hatch groaned when he opened it. Damp earth, rust, decay drifted up like breath from the dead. He descended, flashlight cutting a thin path through graffiti and mildew. Old messages covered the walls — jokes, protest slogans, numbers no one would ever call again.
Halfway through, he heard it.
A wet shuffle. Heavy.
He froze, breath tucked inside his ribs. The beam caught movement — a maintenance worker, uniform shredded, half its face gone, gnawing on something that no longer mattered.
No fear. Just math.
He crouched, lifted the nail gun, exhaled.Thunk.
The nail buried through bone. The body twitched once and went still.
"Calibration confirmed," he muttered and stepped over it.
He didn't look back. Memory wasted precision.
By the time he reached the far hatch, rain had softened into mist. The Chemistry Building rose out of the fog — lights trembling behind barricaded windows.
Alive. Structured. Someone had built a perimeter.
Kazuma crouched behind an overturned car, counting the shapes near the door. Two… no, three. Movement irregular. Spread uneven.
"Three targets. One shot each."
He adjusted the regulator valve.First nail — skull.Thunk.Second — throat.Thunk.Third — eye.Thunk.
All three dropped, marionettes cut loose.
He waited a breath longer, then crossed open ground. Knocked twice with his wrench."Survivor. Request entry."
For a heartbeat, only rain. Then a cautious voice:"Password?"
Kazuma blinked. "If I knew you well enough to have one, I'd already be inside."
A pause. Metal scraped. Locks turned.
The door opened a slit. A tall man stood there, pipe in hand, eyes alert but human.
"Mike Warren," Kazuma said — not as greeting, just confirmation.
Mike's mouth twitched. "And you are?"
"Kazuma Aoki. Engineering. I heard the broadcast."
Mike looked him over — soaked jacket, nail gun, eyes that measured instead of looked. "Didn't expect the cavalry to show up looking like a welder."
Kazuma stepped past him. "Didn't expect a politician to survive two days."
The air inside smelled of ozone and ethanol. Lights flickered, revealing barricades built from lab tables and gas canisters, wires rigged like trip-lines. Crude, but functional.
Kazuma's eyes tracked everything — generator, food supply, radio. "Containment discipline," he said quietly. "Didn't think you'd have the patience."
Mike smirked. "Didn't think an engineer could make a gun that kills quiet."
They stood there — logic and charisma, wet footprints pooling under them.
Kazuma nodded toward the generator. "You're wasting output on lighting. Run your feed underground if you want this place to last another wave."
"Hold on," Mike said, half-grinning. "I didn't say we're partners."
"You don't have to," Kazuma replied. "You called for survivors. I responded. That makes us an equation — balanced or not."
Mike studied him, then laughed softly. "Guess it does."
Thunder rolled again, rattling the windows.
Outside, the rain kept falling, washing the world clean of everything except those stubborn enough to remain.