"How are you, Ayanokouji-kun?" Arisu continued, her chuckle light and musical despite the carnage promised by the weapons behind her. "It seems you've already built yourself quite the little empire."
Ayanokouji Kiyotaka's expression shifted. That mask of absolute indifference he always wore—the one that made him look like a doll pretending to be human—cracked.
Just slightly. Just enough. And beneath it emerged something that made Ryueen's survivors take an involuntary step back.
A ferocious grin.
Not the smile of a man happy to see an ally.
This was the smile of a predator who had just spotted equally dangerous prey walking into his territory, and found the prospect delicious.
"You came at the right time, girlfriend," he said, his voice dropping into something almost intimate.
Almost possessive.
"Come here, Arisu. Come to my side."
Ichika Amasawa, standing rigid behind her senpai, felt something hot and ugly twist in her chest.
Jealousy—raw, childish, undeniable.
The way his attention locked onto this newcomer, the way his whole demeanor shifted for her—it was unbearable.
She glared at Arisu with enough venom to poison a small lake.
"Senpai told you to come," Ichika snapped, her voice sharp as broken glass. "So what are you waiting for, you ungrateful little—"
"Ichika."
One word.
Ayanokouji didn't even look at her.
But the warning in that single syllable was absolute.
It was the kind of voice that made you remember your place in the hierarchy, that reminded you exactly how replaceable you were.
Ichika's mouth snapped shut.
She retreated like a wounded hound, head lowering, but her eyes never stopped glaring at Arisu from beneath her bowed brow.
The hatred there was unmistakable.
Arisu, for her part, didn't look intimidated in the slightest.
If anything, she seemed amused—like a cat watching a particularly aggressive mouse try to puff itself up.
She turned her attention back to Ayanokouji, her smile soft and devastating.
"We already broke up, remember, Ayanokouji-kun?" Her voice was gentle, almost teasing. "Besides... you seem to have plenty of girls already waiting for you over there."
She gestured vaguely toward the huddle of women behind him, her snort delicate but cutting. "A harem, is it? How very like you."
Her meaning was clear. She wasn't joining.
Ayanokouji's brow furrowed—a rare crack in his composure. "Then what do you want?"
Arisu's smile didn't waver. She raised her hand, her finger extending to point—not at him, but past him.
At the group still standing apart from his faction.
The ones Ryueen had left behind.
"Her. And them."
She was pointing at Hiyori Shiina. At Albert. At the cluster of survivors.
"We need manpower in this apocalypse, Ayanokouji-kun. Strong bodies. Capable minds. And those ones..." Her eyes glittered with something that might have been admiration, or might have been hunger. "They're too valuable to leave standing in the here."
The implication was unmistakable. She wasn't here to fight him. She wasn't here to join him. She was here to take—to claim the survivors for herself and her own growing faction.
The game had just become far more interesting.
"I never held them." Ayanokouji Kiyotaka's voice was flat, emotionless—the kind of tone that made it impossible to tell if he was stating a fact or delivering a threat.
Arisu's smile curved into something dangerous and playful. "But you held me hostage once, didn't you?"
She tilted her head, her eyes glittering with mock innocence. "Are you trying to force yourself on me again, Ayanokouji-kun?"
She winked at him.
The gesture was light, almost flirtatious, but her words carried weight.
Because they both knew the truth beneath the tease.
The way Ayanokouji's eyes locked onto her—that deep, possessive gleam that never quite left his gaze whenever she was in range. The way his faction had shifted the moment she appeared, ready to spring at his command.
Every muscle in their bodies screamed readiness. If he gave the word, they would take her. They would take all of them.
It wasn't paranoia. It was calculation. And Arisu was very, very good at calculating.
"Tell me," Ayanokouji's voice dropped—lower, deeper, threaded with something that made the air between them vibrate. "Why should I let my queen leave me?"
It wasn't a question. It was a demand wrapped in velvet and razor wire.
Arisu's approving smile widened.
Good, that smile said.
This is the man she remember.
"You shouldn't," she admitted freely. "I would be genuinely upset if you did."
A pause.
A beat of shared understanding between two people who had once been far more than allies.
"However." Her tone shifted—still warm, but now edged with finality. "This is not the time, Ayanokouji-kun. Take as many firearms and supplies as you want. Take all of them. But we are leaving."
She didn't wait for his response before continuing.
"My father sends his regards. The defense of the mall and the majority of its firearms are now in your hands." Arisu Sakayanagi's words were crisp, formal—a treaty being read aloud. "He hopes we can work together for a better future."
She said it as if the earlier looting of the gun had never happened.
As if they hadn't just been moments away from bloodshed. As if this was simply how things were always meant to unfold.
Then she turned.
Ayanokouji watched her go.
His gaze traced the line of her back, the sway of her hips, her lilac hair. Her scent lingered in the air between them—that particular shampoo she always used, that unique fragrance that belonged to her and only her.
It wrapped around him, weaving through his senses, demanding to be remembered.
His queen.
Walking away.
The urge hit him hard and sudden—violent in its clarity.
He wanted to close the distance in three strides, grab her slender wrist, spin her back around and slam her against the nearest display case.
Rip the buttons of her uniform blouse open one by one until pale skin and lace bra were exposed to the cold air.
Tear those pristine white thigh-high stockings down her legs in jagged strips, leaving red marks where the fabric resisted.
Bend her over, hike her skirt to her waist, and drive into her without preamble—deep, punishing thrusts that would make her perfect composure shatter.
Pound her until her cool voice cracked into whimpers, until she was gasping his name, until every smug little power play she'd ever made was erased under the rhythm of his hips claiming her completely.
He wanted to fuck the arrogance out of her until the only thing left was raw, trembling submission—until she understood, bone-deep, who she truly belonged to in this broken world.
But he didn't move.
He let her walk.
Let her delicate heels click against the concrete, let her silhouette grow smaller in the corridor.
In this apocalypse, strength was the only currency that mattered. Let her play her little power games for now. Let her believe she still held the reins.
Eventually she would learn.
And when that lesson came, he would be the one to teach it—slowly, thoroughly, with her legs wrapped around his waist and his name the only word left on her lips.
Hiyori Shiina moved first, falling into step behind Arisu without a word. Albert followed, his massive frame somehow silent as he passed.
One by one, the remaining members of Class C peeled away from the confrontation and joined the team.
Not a single one looked back. Not a single one sought Ayanokouji's permission or approval.
They had made their choice.
Ayanokouji stood motionless, watching until the last of them disappeared from view.
His expression was unreadable—that familiar mask sliding back into place.
But his eyes... his eyes burned with something that no one else in his faction was brave enough to name.
Finally, he turned to face his own group. His people.
The ones who had stayed.
"The mall is secured," he announced, his voice returning to that flat, commanding tone that brooked no argument. "We move to Class D. We take control."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
"BANZAI!"
The cheer erupted like thunder.
Weapons were raised.
Faces split into grins of savage triumph. They had won. The mall, the supplies, the territory—all of it was theirs now.
"BANZAI!"
"BANZAI!"
The chants echoed through the desolate streets, carrying the weight of conquest.
Now they would take the second-year Class D. Now they would expand their empire further.
No one could stop them.
No one.