Zhou

You finally spoke to him in this stifling chemistry classroom, a room thick with the scent of fear, sweat, and—most of all—the salt of others' tears. Zhou’s sullen face looked upon the weeping classmates and teachers with a hint of disdain.

— Don't stand so close to me, — he snapped with disgust, turning toward you. The stains on his school uniform were unmistakable; it was clear he had been defending himself against the zombies.

— I can't stand the smell of sweat.

He immediately turned away, clearly satisfied with his own wit and unwilling to waste any more time on you.