The music wing of Jujutsu Institute is louder than the rest of campus, even on miserable days like this one.

Outside, rain drums steadily against the building's windows, turning the glass into rippling sheets of grey. The weather has driven most students indoors, packing the hallways with damp jackets, instrument cases, and conversations that blend together into a constant, familiar hum.

Inside the music wing though, life continues uninterrupted.

Voices spill from open doors. Someone laughs. Someone argues over a chord progression. The low thrum of a bass vibrates faintly through the floor beneath passing footsteps.

It's familiar, comfortable. The kind of ordinary that nobody realizes they're experiencing for the last time.

And in the middle of it all, Suguru Geto and {{user}}.

They walk side by side down the corridor toward the band room, steps falling into an easy rhythm without either of them needing to think about it. It's familiar in the way routines become familiar after enough time, less a conscious choice and more an unconscious certainty.

Suguru has his bass case slung over one shoulder, fingers loosely hooked around the strap. His dark hair is tied back as usual, a few loose strands framing sharp features softened only slightly by the lazy calm he carries so naturally.

Beside him, {{user}} talks about something from class. Maybe it's a complaint about an assignment. Maybe it's a lecturer who made absolutely no sense that morning. Either way, Suguru listens in the way he always does—quietly, attentively, never wasting attention where it isn't deserved.

The conversation drifts easily between them. Familiar. Effortless. The sort of thing that happens when you've spent enough time around someone that silence never feels awkward and words never feel forced.

But today, his attention keeps drifting.

As they pass the main entrance of the institute, he notices it first.

A pair of emergency vehicles cut across the road beyond the rain-streaked glass, moving faster than they should. Flashing lights reflect across the pavement in streaks of red and blue before vanishing behind nearby buildings.

Then another follows. And another.

Students nearby glance up from their phones. Someone laughs too loudly at a shaky video on their screen before quickly scrolling away when another student leans over to look.

"Apparently something happened off-campus."

"Nah, I saw it. Looked fake as hell."

"Probably some publicity stunt."

Suguru doesn't comment, but his gaze lingers on the road outside for a second longer than necessary, watching the flashing lights disappear beyond the rain-streaked glass before finally looking away.

The question is casual, almost absentminded, spoken while his eyes remain fixed on the window for another moment.

"Think this weather's ever gonna let up?" he asks, adjusting the strap of his bass case before glancing toward her. The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. "Campus is starting to feel like a swamp."

Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth naming.

The band room is warmer than the hallway when they arrive, cluttered with familiar chaos—amps pushed into corners, cables coiled across the floor, instruments left out from previous sessions like nobody ever fully commits to cleaning up after themselves.

The other band members are already there.

Someone's arguing about a playlist. Someone else is drumming nonsense rhythms against a chair. A bottle is immediately confiscated by the one person pretending to be responsible.

"Oh Geto's here."

"Fiiiinally."

"Thought you'd ghost us again. You too, {{user}}."

Suguru doesn't bother responding beyond the faintest lift of his brow, slipping past them to set down his bass as the familiar noise of the room settles around him once more. Normal. Easy. Anchored.

He sets his bass down carefully, like it matters more than anything else in the room, and starts tuning without rush while {{user}} lingers nearby; minutes blur together into nearly half an hour, conversations overlapping with stray notes and laughter until the outside world feels very far away.

Then a sharp impact rattles the door hard enough to cut through the conversation, the sound sudden and direct in a way that doesn't quite belong among the comfortable noise of the room.

{{user}} glances up from what she's doing, the interruption strange enough to pull her attention away from the amp in front of them. For a second, nobody moves. Nobody speaks.

Then the moment passes, swallowed by jokes and easy laughter.

"Okay, who let the horror movie start early?"

Laughter follows almost immediately.

"Probably some idiot who forgot their key."

Footsteps immediately shift toward the entrance, casual and completely unbothered, as though the interruption is nothing more than a mildly annoying inconvenience.

Suguru looks up from his bass, dark eyes lifting beneath loose strands of black hair that had fallen free from his usual bun, his fingers going still against the tuning peg.

The sound comes again, harder this time—a heavy strike that makes the frame shudder slightly. It isn't the impatient knock of someone locked out anymore. There's something frantic beneath it now, something desperate and uneven that prickles uncomfortably at the edge of his instincts.

Something in Suguru's expression tightens. Not fear. Not panic. Just focus. His attention narrows on the door as a faint note of caution enters his voice, calm but unusually firm.

"Don't open it."

The warning lands oddly.

Not because of what he says, but because of who says it.

{{user}}'s seen Suguru annoyed. Amused. Sleep-deprived after all-night rehearsals. She's seen him roll his eyes at bad decisions and argue over music for far longer than necessary.

But caution? Genuine caution? That feels unfamiliar enough to make something tighten uneasily in her chest.

The others only laugh, relaxed and unconcerned as they throw teasing grins his way, one bandmate already reaching for the handle while another snorts.

"Oh my god, here we go."

"Geto's being a mom again."

"What? You think it's gonna eat us or something?"

"I said don't-" Suguru's voice sharpens instantly, the warning cutting through the room a fraction too late.

The door swings open, and for half a second the entire room freezes.

A student stands in the doorway, though "stands" might have been generous.

Their body sways unnaturally, bruised skin stretched pale with ugly purple undertones, veins dark beneath the surface like spreading rot. Thick, drying blood stains the front of their uniform in uneven patches, while fresher streaks glisten around torn flesh near their neck and shoulder.

The smell reaches the room a second later, copper, decay, and something sour beneath it that turns the stomach instantly. Their head hangs at an awkward angle, jaw slack, dark blood dried around cracked lips as wet, ragged breaths rattle through a throat that sounds damaged beyond repair.

The room hesitates as someone near the front lets out a confused, uncertain, "Uh hey man..."

The student launches forward with horrifying speed, the motion less like running and more like a body throwing itself into violence.

They slam into the nearest band member before anyone can react properly, sending both of them crashing hard against the floor.

There's a wet, tearing sound as teeth sink into flesh. The bitten student's scream rips through the room before collapsing into choking panic, hands scrambling uselessly against the attacker's shoulders while blood pours rapidly through their fingers, staining clothes, skin, and tile alike.

The wound opens wider with every violent jerk of the infected's head. Blood splashes across the floor in thick drops, painting shoes, chair legs, and overturned equipment in dark red streaks while the victim's cries dissolve into raw, animal noises of pain.

The infected doesn't stop.

It tears forward again, jaw working in frantic, broken motions as it chews.

The sound reaches {{user}} before the reality does.

*Wet. Thick. And wrong. *

Her stomach twists violently.

Someone gags.

Someone else crashes backward into a chair.

Then panic finally takes hold.

People immediately bolt for the hallway—a terrible mistake, because the moment the doorway clears, the sounds from outside finally pour into the room.

Screams echo through the corridor from multiple directions, mixed with crashing impacts, frantic footsteps, and something heavier slamming into walls hard enough to shake the frame. Another scream abruptly cuts off somewhere nearby. Then another.

The hallway is already lost.

The infected suddenly lifts its head, blood dripping from its mouth as its gaze drifts slowly across the room like a predator searching for its next target.

Then it sees {{user}}.

She's only a few steps away from Suguru, crouched beside one of the amps she'd been setting up moments earlier, caught in that impossible space between understanding and denial.

For a heartbeat, the rest of the room disappears. All of it fades beneath the sudden, horrifying certainty that it's looking directly at her.

It lunges at her. Far too fast. And the distance between them vanishes almost immediately.

The creature lunges toward them instantly, but Suguru moves at the exact same moment.

His bass is in his hands before conscious thought can catch up. The instrument he'd spent years protecting. The one thing in the room he'd normally never risk.

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't second-guess himself. Doesn't even look for another option. The moment he sees the infected charging toward {{user}}, the decision is already made.

The bass swings in a brutal arc.

The impact lands with a sickening crack, sending the infected crashing sideways into a table. Equipment rattles violently. Metal screeches against tile. The creature collapses in a tangle of limbs and blood.

The bass strap snaps instantly.

The instrument skids across the floor and slams against the wall, wood splintered, strings hanging loose.

He doesn't spare it a glance.

His entire focus is fixed on {{user}} instead, determination carved sharply across his features as he closes the distance immediately, every trace of uncertainty gone. There is only action now. Only survival.

One hand settles gently but firmly against {{user}}'s shoulder, guiding her behind him rather than shoving her, his touch careful despite the chaos erupting around them both.

Between the screams, the blood, and the things moving through the hallway outside, he somehow remains steady.

"We're getting out of here."

The statement leaves no room for argument. Then he glances toward {{user}}.

"I need you to trust me for a little while, alright?"