The bus rolled to a stop beneath the dim awning of the Bauhinia Grand Hotel. Snow sifted sideways through the city canyons; the revolving door hung crooked, carpet dark with old footprints.
They cleared the lobby fast. Two shamblers in bellhop coats, one at the concierge desk. Aiden's blade flashed; Yukino's arrow thumped the second. Hayato-kun finished the third with a shaky but clean Mozambique drill—two center mass, one to the head.
"Power's still on," someone breathed as chandelier bulbs flickered awake.
They swept floors 1–3, blocked both stairwells with upended couches and luggage carts, then rode the elevator up and down in pairs to test it. No alarms, no sudden stops—just that hollow hotel hum.
Briefing in the banquet foyer followed. Hayato-kun tapped the framed emergency map.
"B1 is the kitchen," he said. "Two is buffet, three is ballroom. We did a fast check—most sealed stock's edible. We moved perishables to working coolers. Conservatively, ten days of food if we ration."
"And power?" Aiden asked.
"Diesel genny in the service room. There's fuel—but not much. If we're careful, maybe five days." Hayato grimaced. "If we heat like normal? Two and a half."
Aiden nodded once. "Then rules." He faced the group; their chatter died.
"First—power discipline. Lights only where you sleep or work. No long hot water, no laundry cycles, no elevator joyrides. Second—alcohol is for Molotovs. No drinking. Third—watch rotations. Two-person posts, four-hour shifts. Fourth—no one opens a door alone. You move in pairs, minimum."
No one argued. After the school and the parking lot, obedience came easy.
They split tasks:
Supply: Yukino and three others inventoried pantry stock and bottled water, logging calories per person per day.
Fortify: Aiden led Kakeru and the remaining athletes to brace stairwells, chain fire doors (without locking their escape), and stage Molotovs, rope, and spare radios near each landing.
Medical: A quiet girl from the archery club sorted first-aid kits and prepped tourniquets.
Recon: Hayato-kun mapped exits, loading bay, and rooftop access for a potential evac.
By evening they'd claimed the 27th-floor suites—one corridor for sleeping, one for supplies, one kept empty as an isolation ward. From up there, the city looked snow-hushed and hollow, like a set waiting for actors who'd never return.
Aiden did a final round, checked the stair jammers, counted fuel jerrycans, and stuck a handwritten placard over the bar sink:
NO DRINKING. MIX MOLOTOVS HERE.
(Tear-off recipe card below.)
Door-to-door he confirmed the night watch. "If it's not human, you can shoot," he told the pair assigned to the glass-box fitness room. "If it is human, you call me first."
"Understood," they said in unison.
"Last item," Aiden said in the lobby, voice carrying. "Lights out in thirty. Sleep with boots by the bed, jacket within reach. If the generator dies at night, we don't freeze because we can't find our shoes."
Reluctant smiles. A few even laughed—thin, but real.
They dispersed. The elevator chimed. Carpet swallowed footsteps.
Aiden took the corner suite at the end of the 27th—best sightlines on both hallways, quickest reach to the emergency stairs. He set his AK by the sofa, laid out his knives, the grenade launcher, three Molotovs, and the last two pain pills on the coffee table. Windows showed snow slanting past the city's bruised neon.
He was halfway through scribbling tomorrow's run plan (fuel, medical restock, a detour to the pharmacy four blocks west) when:
Knock, knock, knock.
Aiden slid the peephole cover aside.
"Utaha-senpai?" he said, opening the door a crack.
She stood there with a tray: two steaming mugs, a thermos, and a neat stack of folded thermal layers. No grand gestures, no coy smile—just steadiness in her eyes that hadn't been there this morning.
"I brought hot tea," she said. "And the inventory on winter gear. Also…" She dipped her head. "I owe you another apology. I want to help—properly."
Aiden stepped back to let her in. "Then help me plan," he said. "We have five days of light if we're saints, ten days of food if we're misers, and a city that won't stay quiet."
Utaha-senpai set the tray down, flipped open a notebook, and uncapped a pen. "Schedule, roles, rotation, and a supply run matrix," she said, almost like she was pitching a story. "You give orders. I'll write them so no one can pretend they misunderstood."
Aiden nodded. Outside, sirens moaned somewhere far away; the snow kept falling.
"Tea first," Utaha-senpai added, pushing a mug into his hand. "Then we work."
The hotel's lights hummed on. For tonight at least, warmth and order held.
(End of Chapter)
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