Highschool Of The Dead: Dead Man’s Tale.

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Kozen’s morning began not with a jarring alarm but with the gradual lightening of the sky, his internal clock nudging him awake at the usual hour. He stretched languidly, muscles unwinding, before rolling out of bed into the cool embrace of the morning air. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and he padded his way to the window, pulling the curtains aside to welcome the new day.

His morning routine was a blend of discipline and self-care, beginning with a quick, refreshing splash of water on his face to shake off the remnants of sleep. As he peered into the bathroom mirror, the man looking back at him was focused and ready. He attended to his grooming with methodical strokes of the toothbrush, the minty paste frothing as he scrubbed each tooth.

After rinsing, he slipped into his workout gear, a well-worn t-shirt and shorts that felt like second skin as he began his regimen with a series of stretches. 

Kozen transitioned into a set of dynamic exercises. First came the push-ups, his form perfect, body straight as a plank, descending and ascending with the smooth hydraulics of a well-oiled machine. He counted each repetition silently, his breathing steady and controlled. Next were the squats, deep and even, his thighs parallel to the floor at each dip, the burn in his muscles building a familiar warmth.

As he shifted to abdominal crunches, his mind wandered to the day ahead. 

This physical exertion was not just a means to keep fit; it was a meditation, a way to center himself for the challenges of the day.

With his workout complete, Kozen took a few moments to cool down, his body slick with a sheen of sweat. He felt energized, every cell tingling with the rush of endorphins. After a quick shower, where the cold water washed away the sweat and eased any lingering tightness in his muscles, he dressed for the day.

Descending the stairs to the kitchen, Kozen’s thoughts were interrupted by a small, fluttering piece of paper on the table. He picked up the note, recognizing Rika’s hurried scrawl: Sorry, duty calls, make yourself some eggs, I don’t know, you know how to cook better than me.

Kozen set about preparing his breakfast. The kitchen was equipped with everything he needed. Eggs were cracked with a precise tap against the counter’s edge, yolks spilling smoothly into the hot pan where they sizzled gently. He seasoned them with a practiced flick of his wrist.

As he ate, the silence of the apartment wrapped around him, punctuated only by the soft clink of his fork against the plate. 

Breakfast concluded, Kozen washed his dishes with quick, methodical movements, the warm water running over his hands as he scrubbed and rinsed. He glanced at the clock, noting the time with a nod, and grabbed his bag.

The streets were beginning to bustle with the early stirrings of the day—commuters on bicycles, students in groups, everyone moving with a purposeful energy that matched his own. 

At the train station, Kozen navigated the crowds with a fluid ease. He found a spot on the platform, the overhead screen displaying the countdown until the next train. As he waited, he watched the people around him, each absorbed in their own routines, their own thoughts.

As the train rolled in, its arrival heralded by a gentle electronic tone and the soft whoosh of doors sliding open, Kozen stepped aboard. 

Kozen secured his headphones over his ears, immersing himself in the rhythmic intensity of video game music. 

His preference for music had always been indifferent in his previous life; he never delved deep into genres or artists, casually listening to whatever played around him. However, there was one exception that truly captivated him—video game music. 

As the train doors slid shut with a soft whoosh, he queued up his favorite track from DOOM, a piece he affectionately referred to as the “track of violence.” It wasn’t just music to him; it was an adrenaline pump, a perfect continuation of his morning’s workout.

As the train started its steady rumble forward, Kozen stood near the door, his body unconsciously swaying to the beats thumping in his ears. 

His momentary escape into the music was disrupted when he felt a slight nudge against his shoe. Glancing down, he noticed a girl from his high school, her uniform a clear identifier amidst the crowd of morning commuters. She had waist-length orange-brown hair tied back in a small ponytail, with the rest cascading around her shoulders and bangs partially obscuring her reddish-brown eyes. Her slender figure was tense, her posture subtly recoiled, as if she was trying to make herself smaller.

Kozen’s gaze sharpened, picking up on the nuances of her discomfort. His eyes then trailed to a man standing too close behind her. The man looked average, unremarkable, like any middle-aged uncle one might encounter on a commute—unassuming, face partially hidden behind a mask. Yet, the placement of his hand on the girl’s shoulder spoke a different story.

Oi, looks like we have a pervert on our hands.

Kozen’s hand shot out, grasping the man’s fingers with a firm grip that immediately alerted the offender. 

“Oi, ojisan, mind removing your hand from my friend…she doesn’t want your protection,” Kozen stated clearly, his voice calm yet edged with a stern warning. As he spoke, he applied a calculated twist to the man’s fingers, bending them backward.

The usual hush of the Japanese train magnified Kozen’s voice, making it resonate across the quiet hum of the morning commute. Heads turned, drawn by the disturbance in their ordinarily tranquil journey. The man, now visibly shaken and in discomfort, stammered his excuse to escape the situation. 

“My stop is here, I have to go.”

However, the digital display inside the train car indicated that the next station was still fifteen minutes away, exposing his lie. Kozen’s lips curled into a wry smile, recognizing the man’s panic. 

Just then, the girl acted with surprising quickness. Her hand shot out, gripping the edge of the man’s mask and pulling it away from his face. In a fluid motion, she extracted her phone and snapped a photograph, capturing the man’s exposed and flustered expression.

The man’s response was immediate; he scrambled toward the connecting door, aiming to flee into the next car. Around them, the other passengers remained passive, some glancing away, others watching silently, embodying the typical reserved nature of public bystanders.

Kozen rolled his eyes at the docile response from the public. 

Nonetheless, he felt a grudging respect for the girl’s quick thinking. 

She now had tangible evidence that could help file a case with the police.

Kozen, having reinstated his headphones, turned his focus back to the music that had been his initial refuge, trying to block out the residual stares and murmurs from the other passengers. Some glances held a tinge of suspicion, almost as if they thought he had orchestrated the uncomfortable scenario, which prompted an involuntary sweatdrop from him. But he brushed off the unwarranted scrutiny with a mental shrug, Let these racist fucks think whatever they want to think.

Just as he settled back into the aggressive rhythms of his video game soundtrack, he felt another tug on his sleeve. Turning, he saw the girl again, her expression a mix of gratitude and something else he couldn’t quite place. 

“Thank you,” she said simply. 

Kozen nodded in acknowledgment and attempted once again to return to his music.

But then came another tug—persistent and slightly more insistent. 

This was starting to get annoying. 

He looked at her, his expression a silent question. 

My name is Rei… Rei Miyamoto.”

“Kozen Nakayama.” 

He turned his focus back to the music, increasing the volume.

Yet, Rei was not deterred. 

Another tug at his sleeve followed, more determined than before. 

“Hey, I never saw you in school, what class are you in?”

Kozen sighed.

Can’t I just have some peace in the morning?