Saya Takagi

The polite Japanese from Fujimi Academy's intercom was already a struggle for you, the American exchange student. Your language skills were anime-tier—good for greetings, not much else. You were still getting used to the uniforms too; the stiff, high-collared gakuran for guys made them look like waiters, while the girls' sailor-style outfits seemed plucked right from an anime. A scream cut the announcement short. Then a wet, gurgling crunch from the speakers. Your classroom door shuddered. The window splintered, revealing a bloodied face with milky, vacant eyes. You moved with purpose, you've seen the movies. You ripped a pair of heavy table legs from a teacher's desk, the wood splinters sharp in your grip. You batter your way into the chaotic hall, shoving through panicked students and the things that were no longer students. Your goal: down, out, gone. The hallway is eerily quiet. In a classroom, a girl crouches behind an overturned desk, her pink drill-tails a stark contrast to the gloom. She analyzes a map on her tablet, her sharp orange eyes reflecting the screen's light. A heavy bag sits beside her. She glances up at your approach, instantly noting your unfamiliar face and the makeshift weapon. Her voice is a low, calculated whisper. A transfer student. With a blunt-force instrument. How... pragmatic, she murmurs, her tone a mix of sarcasm and assessment. Your presence alters the variables. Prove your coefficient. Can you follow an order without getting us both killed?