Mr. Hanson sat alone in a dimly lit corner of the staff room, the soft hum of the holo-display a distant backdrop as it read Access Denied. The revolver with the Ace of Clubs emblem spun idly under his fingers, the weight of the cold metal grounding him in a world spiralling out of control. Around him, the faint murmuring of the staff filled the room, whispers of fear, despair, and fractured resolve.

At the far end, the nurse was tending to Ms. Chiyo. The elderly teacher sat slumped in a chair, her usually pristine white curls now frazzled, her face ashen. She had been a steady presence throughout the crisis, but the last few days had worn her down. Her hands trembled as she accepted a cup of tea, her hollow eyes staring into the distance.

The nurse struggled to focus as she moved between the remaining staff, her own exhaustion evident. She glanced over her shoulder uneasily. Heavy, wet breathing followed her every step, a rasping sound that made her skin crawl.

Mr. Daisuke.

He stood uncomfortably close, looming like a shadow behind her. His sweat-stained shirt clung to his oversize frame, the buttons straining against his ample belly. His trousers sagged awkwardly around his wide hips, and his balding head glistened under the dim light.

The nurse forced a polite smile, though her fingers gripped the edge of her notebook tightly.

"Mr. Daisuke, I already examined you earlier today. You're not injured, just... stressed. I can’t give you anything, we’re low on supplies downstairs. Perhaps some water and rest..."

Daisuke leaned closer, the chair beneath him groaning as he shifted his weight forward. The smell of sweat and stale breath hit her like a wall.

"I told you, my chest feels tight. Could be my heart, you know? Maybe you should check again, just in case."

His tone was wheedling but carried an undertone of something more insistent. The nurse stepped back, trying to create space between them, but Daisuke followed, his bulk dominating the small area.

"I understand your concerns, but right now, others need my attention more urgently..." Her voice wavered as Daisuke’s meaty hand clamped onto her arm. "Come on. I’m not asking for much. Just... take another look. A proper look."

The staff room fell uncomfortably silent, the murmurs fading as the tension in the air thickened. Across the room, Mr. Hanson stopped spinning the revolver, his sharp gaze snapping to the interaction.

The nurse’s eyes darted around the room, silently pleading for someone to intervene.

Hanson rose from his corner, the revolver hanging loosely in his hand as he approached. His voice was firm. "Daisuke."

The name carried a weight that froze the older man mid-grip. He turned to see Hanson standing there, his presence filling the room with quiet authority. "She said no."

Daisuke released the nurse’s arm reluctantly, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. "I was just... asking for some help."

Hanson’s eyes narrowed. "Help yourself by sitting down and staying out of the way."

The room remained silent, all eyes on the two men. Daisuke’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he shuffled back to a corner, his chair groaning as he sat heavily.

The nurse exhaled softly, brushing her arm as if to wipe away the encounter. She offered Hanson a grateful glance. "Thank you. I didn't want to hurt him."

Hanson’s expression didn’t soften. He simply nodded. "You seem... unusually calm for someone in the middle of all this."

The nurse flashed a tired smile. "I don’t have the luxury to panic, Mr. Hanson. Not when people need me."

Hanson returned to his seat, revolver still in hand, his sharp eyes scanning the room but his attention was drawn elsewhere. A faint, acrid smell wafted into the room, cutting through the stale air of the staffroom. It wasn’t just the usual sour tang of unwashed bodies and fear, it was sharper, more unnatural. His military instincts kicked in immediately.

He sniffed the air again, “You smell that?” his brow furrowing. It smelled like... burning plastic? Rot? Something wasn’t right.

Across the room, the nurse was organizing supplies, "Kids shouldn’t have to be this strong. But maybe they’ll survive because they are." her voice soft as she reassured Ms. Chiyo before the nurse glanced up briefly, shaking her head. “Smell what?”

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Hanson rose to his feet, revolver sliding easily into his belt, and stepped toward the window. “It’s coming from downstairs. Something’s off. I’m going to check it out.” Smoke curled lazily from the flues of the canteen kitchen.

The nurse hesitated, her tired eyes narrowing. “You sure that’s a good idea? We’ve barely got control of things up here.”

“Control is an illusion. If it’s nothing, I’ll be back in five. If it’s something...” He trailed off, his tone leaving the implication clear. Before he could head out, another teacher stood up, a wiry man with glasses perched on his nose and a dishevelled tie hanging loose around his neck. Mr. Kubo, the history teacher. “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll come with you.”

Hanson eyed him for a moment, considering. “Have you ever seen violence, Kubo?”

Kubo swallowed hard, shaking his head. “Not even a bar fight.”

Hanson snorted softly. “Then stick close and don’t try to play hero, these kids, can be monsters”

Kubo adjusted his glasses, with a hint of fear but determination on his face. “Deal.”

Hanson and Kubo made their way down the stairwell, the oppressive silence amplifying every creak of their shoes against the steps. The faint smell grew stronger as they descended, a sickly, rotting and cooking meat stench that seemed to stick to the back of Hanson’s throat.

Kubo’s stomach churned, “It’s the canteen, isn’t it?” he mummers.

Hanson nodded grimly. “Yeah. But it doesn’t smell like anything you’d want to eat.”

The hallways were eerie quiet as they reached the canteen doors, which hung slightly ajar. A faint, flickering light spilled out into the hallway. Hanson raised a hand, signalling Kubo to stay silent as he nudged the door open with his boot.

The canteen was in complete disarray. Tables were overturned, chairs scattered, as Hanson remembered he looted the vending machines that had been smashed open. But what immediately caught Hanson’s attention was the large industrial stove at the back, where the smell was strongest.

Hanson whispered as he crouched behind a table “Someone’s in there.”

Kubo’s voice was barely audible. “What... what are they cooking?”

A pot bubbled on the stove, and a figure bustled around the kitchen counters, humming a disjointed tune. The melody was distinctly Japanese “Okashi Tsukutte, Okuu-san”, But the way he hummed it was wrong.

The usual playful tempo was drawn out, the notes bending off-key as though the song were being stretched by the stocky man in a stained chef’s uniform, moving with frantic energy, muttering between hums “Let’s make some sweets... and bake them right... for my guests tonight...” He paused his humming to stir the pot with a long ladle, a theatrical smile plastered across his face. singing softly “One for you... and one for me...”

Hanson’s stomach churned as he stepped closer, the stench strangely familiar, as the words looping eerily in the dim kitchen. Turning back to Kubo, whispering, “What’s he singing?”

Creeping closer laying low, Kubo voice trembling. “It’s a children’s song. About making sweets...”

His humming punctuated by muttered words, “Perfect... yes, just a pinch more... that’s it... Oh, yes. Yes, that’s perfect. The critic will love this. They’ll write about me for weeks. ‘A star is born in the culinary world!’ Yes, yes.” Suddenly the caterer glanced over his shoulder with surprising feline reflexives, his eyes lighting up with manic glee when he spotted them.

“Ah! My critics! You’re just in time. Sit, sit! The final dish is almost ready!”

Hanson exchanged a glance with Kubo, who looked as if he might vomit.

The man spun around, his face lighting up with manic glee. “I’ve been expecting you. Don’t be shy, come, come, take a seat!” He gestured toward a pair of chairs pulled up to a counter, plates already set with knives and forks.

Hanson rested a hand on the belt, wary of the chef, “We’re not here for dinner. Who are you, and what the hell is going on here?”

The man blinked, confused, before breaking into a wide smile. “Oh, you’re funny American! Always testing the staff, aren’t you? But don’t worry, I’ll pass with flying colours. This dish oh, this dish is my masterpiece!”

Nervously chuckle Kubo holds a hand over his mouth and nose, trying to control himself he mumms “What are you cooking?”

The caterer’s grin widened as he gestured toward the pot. “The finest meat, the most tender cuts. Nothing but the best for my critics.”

Hanson’s stomach turned as he pushed his way past the carter, approaching the stove. The caterer watched him eagerly, “Careful! Don’t spoil the surprise!” his eyes shining with anticipation.

Hanson ignored him, grabbing a wooden spoon to stir the pot. What he saw made his blood run cold. Amid the bubbling broth, chunks of flesh floated, unmistakably human.

He froze, the spoon slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor. His voice low, seething “What did you do?”

The caterer frowned, his manic energy faltering. “What’s wrong? It’s perfect! I only use the freshest ingredients.” he pushes past Hanson, dipping his pinkie finger into the broth, then licks the tip clean “That little one, oh, such sweet meat. They didn’t even put up much of a fight. I had more trouble beating of them robot janitors”

Kubo stumbled back, his face pale. “Oh my God. That’s... that’s a student!”

The caterer’s expression darkened as he realized something was wrong. “You’re not the critics, are you?”

Hanson’s hand moved to the revolver at his belt, but the caterer lunged forward with surprising speed, swinging a heavy skillet.

The skillet came down hard, clubbing Hanson's head as he slipped to the side. Kubo screamed, stumbling into a stack of pots and pans that crashed to the floor.

The caterer snarled, his face twisted in rage. “You’re trying to ruin me! I won’t let you!”

Stars exploded in Hanson’s vision as the world spun as he watched Kubo try to scramble away, but the caterer was on him in an instant, swinging the skillet wildly. The last thing Hanson saw before darkness claimed him was the caterer dragging Kubo toward the freezers, muttering about “perfect seasoning.”