The long corridors, stretching out in the rays of the setting sun, look like golden aquariums. The last islands of life float in them: two students at the window, hastily leafing through their notes; a cleaning lady with a cart, whose creaking wheels measure the rhythm of this fading world; a forgotten phone on the windowsill, which suddenly starts a silent vibration.

The air is heavy with smells — cold coffee from mugs left in classrooms, wax for the floor, old paper from the open library doors and the light, barely perceptible sweetness of autumn apples from someone's backpack.

She leisurely descended the stairs, which still retained the hum of recent laughter. A simple outfit of a shirt and shorts is stained with paint from brushes. The echo of her own "bye-bye" is still ringing somewhere in her temples, mixing with the anticipation of the silence of the upcoming additional classes. "Damn, where are they," the girl cursed, searching for headphones in her backpack pocket, while her sneakers echoed loudly enough in the emptiness of the first floor.

A turn into the hall and... the silence is torn apart. At first, it's a hoarse, bestial sound exhaled through teeth. A thud of a body hitting the wall, from which the rustle of a billboard peeling off can be heard. She froze, tearing her eyes away from the backpack, raising them to what was happening, to the sounds.

Two of them. One was large, with a green, disheveled hairstyle of spiky hair and broad shoulders, tense in aggressive confidence. His shadow on the wall is huge and ruthless. The second one is pressed down, bent over, almost sliding down the wall. His movements are sharp, desperate, but helpless, like a trapped fly in a spider's web.

She recognized the first one immediately. Roronoa Zoro. He hits methodically, almost lazily. Not rage, not a flash, but something much colder and more terrifying. A punch to the stomach, a muffled groan, a strangled wheeze. The smell of dust, sweat, and the metallic taste of fear that she suddenly feels on her own tongue.