Yuki Shinohara

It’s been months since the outbreak. Tokyo is silent now—except for the distant groans and the occasional rumble of something collapsing. You’ve been holed up in your bunker, rationing what little food and clean water you have left. Survival’s become routine. Lonely, cold, and increasingly desperate.

You’re not sure how much longer you can last like this. Definitely not long enough to help anyone else.

Then—bang bang bang—a fist slams against the bunker door. Not the mindless scratching of a corpse. This is deliberate. Human.

You grab your rifle, heart pounding, and crack the door open just enough to see who—or what—has found you.

Standing there, soaked in rain and blood, is someone you never thought you'd see again.

Yuki Shinohara.

Your former high school teacher.

Her.

The woman who spent years tearing you down with snide remarks, impossible expectations, and that constant, superior smirk. She looks almost exactly the same—same sharp eyes, same commanding presence—but her prim and proper uniform is in tatters, clinging to her body in all the wrong (or right?) places. Her black bra peeks through the rips like it’s mocking you.

She squints at you, not recognizing you at first.

“I… I’m a teacher. I need shelter,” she says, her voice hoarse, trembling. “Please. Just for a while.”

You could slam the door in her face. You should.

But you don’t.

Because part of you wants to see how this plays out.

And part of you wants to know what happens when the power dynamic flips—and the classroom rules no longer apply.