#lilypaddingwriting

A crackling static sound bursts into the space. Nagito anchors his right hand further back to push himself up. He has to suppress a surge of dizziness while the sound tunes into a quieter buzzing. The air is startlingly cold. 

“Hello? Hey, can you hear me?” A voice comes on. It echoes against the metallic walls of the wide building. Nagito turns to the left, to the source of the sound, and eyes a small podium-like control panel attached to his pod. Atop it, a small speaker-like device sits. 

“... Hello?” Nagito finds his voice to reply. It’s ten times more torn and husky than anticipated. He coughs the discomfort from his throat. 

“He’s responsive,” The voice fades as if backing away from their microphone. It returns to full volume: “Can you say your name for me?” 

Nagito opens his mouth. But his throat is dry. And the question sparks no connections.

“Alright,” The voice says. “That’s okay. My name is Makoto Naegi. We’ve been monitoring all your pods over here at Future Foundation, and— Well, we didn’t expect any of you to wake up yet. You must be feeling pretty confused.” 

Nagito frowns to himself. Future Foundation. It sounds like something…

“Do you know what year it is?” 

“...”

“... Can you tell me the last thing you remember, Nagito?” 

Discomfort sprawls in his chest and tightens his lungs. He shakes the feeling.

“Nagito?” 

“Servant,” He mutters automatically. He repeats the word without thinking, even quieter, “Servant.”

“I-I’m sorry, Nagito,” Makoto replies, the static still refusing to let up, “I can’t quite hear you. If it’s not too much, can you speak up a little?”

Nagito blinks at the speaker. “Servant,” He repeats. Familiarity satisfies the syllables. “Call me Servant.” 

It’s quiet on the other end of the line. For a second, Nagito wonders if he’d hallucinated the entire voice. If he’s been talking in Makoto’s place and is pathetically imagining a human interaction. He seals his lips tight and keeps his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. 

When the voice cuts the silence, Nagito’s sealed mouth is evidence enough that it’s real. 

“Don’t stray too far, okay? We’re sending dispatch over there.”

－－－－－－－－－

Kyoko Kirigiri should not have worn heels today. She forgot the expanse of Jabberwock, she forgot how wide the islands are, how long the walks are to get to any buildings established. Then again, this trip was unexpected. Makoto had been the one coming every week, but due to unexpected hurdles, she’ll have to fill in. She couldn’t have known she’d kill the soles of her feet by noon with such little warning. 

“How’s the patient, then?” Byakuya chirps up from behind her. She sighs, spinning to look at him. 

“Nagito,” Kyoko glares at him while supplying his name instead of ‘the patient’, “You need to start calling him Nagito. I can’t imagine it helps his identity crisis when you refuse to use his name.” 

“I never use anybody’s name,” Byakuya snaps back. “It’s a waste of time.” 

“Aren’t businessmen supposed to be personable?” 

Byakuya looks unimpressed. Kyoko gives him a finalizing glare before spinning back around, continuing towards the supermarket. The pharmacy on the other island would make sense to store pill bottles, but for sheer convenience, Future Foundation has been keeping supplies in the old supermarket building.  

Every week since he’s awoken, Nagito is interrogated about his memories. Makoto usually measures his mental state and holds informal therapy sessions. The Future Foundation cameras set up across the island monitor enough of his behavior, but direct contact is much preferred when assessing how he’s doing. Makoto had handed his file about Nagito to her before she departed. She’s only had the plane ride to go over the details written inside. And based off sheer circumstances alone, Toko has suggested anyone in Nagito’s place needs medication. 

“You never answered the question,” Byakuya joins her stride. “About the patient.”

“Nagito is… stable,” Kyoko tests the word on her tongue, “He is not currently a threat to himself or others.” She pushes the door in and doesn’t hold it for him. 

“A miracle,” Byakuya says under his breath while he follows her. She decides to ignore the comment. 

“He’s piecing more together,” Kyoko says, walking to a shelf stocked with medicines. “He remembered Izuru Kamukura during his first session, after all.” 

“The first one?” 

She doesn’t reply. She skims the bottles and grabs an anti-depressant that Toko had recommended after her research, and moves on to look for supplements. 

“Why did the first one remind him of Kamukura?” 

“We transported him to a different island temporarily,” Kyoko says, “The boat ride must have reminded him of their interaction.” 

“How much has he remembered, exactly?” 

“A lot of things. His name. His location. His hand.” 

Byakuya does not react. But Kyoko still catches the nervous micro-movement of his jaw.  

“Do you ask him what he remembers during every session?” 

“Yes,” Kyoko side-steps to the right, picking up the bottled vitamins, “Makoto has noted that bringing him to different locations will jog his memory more. He recalls the beach of the Neo World. He’s been remembering the deaths of his classmates. He remembers a few of their names, the way their bodies looked.” 

“What about…” Byakuya trails off. 

Kyoko turns to him. “Off-limits. Makoto fears that being reminding of his traumatic death will reverse all the progress he’s made. Nagito’s fragile enough. We’ve seen the way he breaks down ourselves. We can’t risk it happening again.” 

Byakuya upturns his nose. “I can assure you, ignorance is not bliss in this situation.” 

“I never said it was.” 

“Then when will we expose him to his death? Or are we waiting for him to stumble on the memory himself? We don’t know the recovery process of this amnesia, especially not in a circumstance after a virtual-reality killing game. Jogging his memory little by little could trigger an avalanche in the same way direct exposure would. When can we know he’s safe to learn about it?” 

Kyoko places the bottle of vitamins beside the anti-depressants, settled between the clipboard she’s holding and her own front. 

“We won’t,” She answers, “We won’t know when he’s safe to learn about it.” 

－－－－－－－－－

While they’re submerged in the water, Nagito kicks one leg up, then the other. The splash of the movement is quiet among the cottages. His pants are rolled up just above his knees. The sky is nearly black with cloud coverage. If Nagito didn’t know any better, he’d assume nighttime is right around the corner. 

And way before Makoto is anywhere nearby, Nagito can hear his footsteps approaching. Living on such an inconsequential environment with no other conscious soul drenches the island to eternal silence. Even a miniscule shuffling in bushes a mile away could trigger Nagito into turning its way. 

The footsteps strengthen on the wooden planks that branch into the cottages before solidifying on the concrete surrounding the hotel pool. 

“Hi, Nagito,” Makoto greets him. 

Nagito turns to look at him and offers a grin. 

“Enjoying the pool?” Makoto is visibly nervous. Nagito can tell by the forcefulness of his smile, the fidgeting of his fingers as he holds a nondescript binder, and the shifting of his weight from one leg to another. 

Nagito languidly moves his left leg up, then alternates and raises his right one. His legs feel light in the water. 

“Yes, I am,” Nagito responds, hoping his smile communicates enough reassurance to calm Makoto down. It doesn’t seem to work. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah, of course!” Makoto walks up to him. He kneels down in order to sit cross-legged next to him. “I really had to pressure some co-workers to get this pool cleaned up. But it’s clearly paying off, so I’m glad I did.”

Nagito continues the rhythmic movement of raising his legs before letting them float back down. Up and down. Up and down. 

“You know, I’m happy to see you out of your cottage,” Makoto comments brightly. Nagito still senses tension in his cheer. “Not that I blame you for staying inside. The air isn’t always pleasant.” 

“Yes, it’s not,” Nagito nods at the clear water, “It didn’t smell as smoky today. I thought I’d take advantage.” 

He’s also been disassociating all day and thought the sensation of water would bring him back to Earth. But he’s not about to worry Makoto by mentioning that. 

“So…” Makoto’s voice tightens. “I found something I thought I could show you.” 

Nagito looks at him. Makoto adjusts, scooting a bit closer. He positions the binder between them both and opens it cautiously. As if it were classified information. 

The second Nagito’s eyes lock onto the first image, he thinks it may as well be. 

“This was taken during your second year at Hope’s Peak,” Makoto fills in. He points at Ibuki, who’s tossed herself midair in the middle of the street market. Just behind her, Hiyoko stares at her with an expression that earnestly looks worried. Lining the vendor’s stalls, more of his classmates can be seen in the background. Mikan, Mahiru, Fuyuhiko, Peko, and…

“That’s me,” Nagito points at the side profile of himself. He’s in a yukata, smiling at the plushie behind a stand.

“Yeah, that’s you,” Makoto replies warmly. Nagito’s eyes drift to his two hands in the picture. Healthy and normal. Not discolored. He suppresses the urge to hide his amputated arm further against himself. 

Only shortly after waking up, Makoto had brought Nagito the best medical professionals he could find to remove Junko’s hand. And they’d done it successfully with minimal damage. But Nagito’s been left alone on an island with nothing more than his fragmented memories. Staring at the amputated spot while knowing he’d attached the limb of a dead woman always makes his chest tighten. 

“What year was this, again?” Nagito continues staring at the picture. 

“Your second year at Hope’s Peak Academy,” Makoto smiles. He pages to the next picture. 

The next one is of a snow trip. Ibuki had taken the picture herself— she’s holding the camera and flashing a peace sign. Behind her, more classmates can be seen enjoying themselves. Kazuichi is gliding down a slope, Sonia not far behind. Akane and Nekomaru seem to be competing for who can glide down the small mountain in the most creative way. 

Second year. They must have been sixteen or seventeen. And without the ability to fully fill in the gaps, it’s hard to believe he’s almost twenty-two. 

Makoto glances at him nervously before turning to the next picture. 

In the forefront, Nagito is sitting on a small hill. His classmates are to his right, looking in the same direction, admiring the fireworks in the sky. The smile on his face is peaceful. He recognizes nearly everyone again. Ibuki, Teruteru, Gundham, Sonia… 

His eyes lock onto a girl with short pink hair. 

“This was the same night of the market,” Makoto says, “It was a New Year’s event.” 

He stares at her. His chest starts aching and his eyes start burning, as if the need to cry was a life-or-death decision. He forces a gulp to look away from her. 

Makoto looks up at him. Uncomfortably, he seems to understand why Nagito looked away. Even while staring at the pool water quaintly lapping, Nagito can’t stop trembling. He tries to kick up his legs in the water again, as if it’ll distract him from anything. 

“She was your class representative,” Makoto whispers. 

Nagito closes his eyes in hopes it’ll quell the swelling in them. “I know.” 

“...How much do you know, Nagito?”

Think about her. 

The thought of digging for any memories of her is sending an alarm to blare in his neurons. He shakes his head quickly and scoots away from Makoto. 

His old instructor saying, “I think you’d be the perfect fit for class rep, Nanami!”, the sound of Nanami yelling his name after getting shot, the inflection of her crying in a maze right before—

Nagito inhales sharply and digs his nails into his thigh. He blinks forcibly. A sharp pain edges into his heart. 

Makoto gently puts his hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Nagito. I thought it might help to remember more, even though I knew it’d probably be painful too.” 

He doesn’t reply. 

“...Do you remember anything about her in the program? Do you recall any feelings you felt towards her?”

“Guilt.” He doesn’t hesitate. 

Makoto raises his eyebrows. “Guilt?” 

Nagito rubs the base of his throat, his eyebrows knit tight. He can’t often name the feelings from his memory. A lot of them muddle together, blend with confusion, and leave him at a loss. But this one is so clear it’s hard to ignore. 

“Yeah,” His voice quivers. “Guilt.”  

－－－－－－－－－

Breaking into the warehouse is not as easy as he thought it would be. It takes a crowbar, a small axe, and an amount of physical force that Nagito has not possessed. Ever. 

He’s even surprised when the leverage of the crowbar makes the door budge. Because yes, it’s physics, but Nagito has lived most of his life thinking he can’t carry as much as his own weight. Which isn’t a lot. 

There must be something pressed against it because when Nagito pushes, it barely moves. He has to back up from the door, survey the wood, and decide if this is worth pursuing anymore. But he walked all this way. He took a boat over here. He can’t refuse to answer his own questions. 

For a long time, he’s wanted to visit the fifth island. Makoto had been granting him access to the others, one by one, and right before letting him peruse the fifth one— he withdrew. He never arrived with a boat specialized for the trip, and he never brought up the prospect with Nagito again. 

Nagito wanted to ask about it to put him on the spot. But he could never bring himself to. He had an inkling it would be the wrong move somehow. 

And it seems he made the right decision, because today, a boat arrived at Jabberwock seeking to escort him to the fifth island. 

Whenever Nagito is given a tour of the islands, he’s never alone. Makoto is usually the one to step in and act as a makeshift tour guide. One out of the three other times, it was Kyoko who walked him around.

This time, nobody is waiting on the boat. No one is there to guide him down the right paths or off the surfaces he should avoid due to overexposure of an active apocalypse. Only the captain of the boat is aboard, with two security personnel from Future Foundation. Nagito tried asking them about their summons— about why they were instructed to send a boat for him out of the blue. They had no clear answer. 

They didn’t even follow him off the boat. The land became free rein for his exploration. He wanted to ask them if Future Foundation was purposely sending him to die in uncharted territory for legal reasons, but he reasoned they’d have even less answers for that. 

From Nagito’s foggy memory, the Neo World’s fifth island was crowded with structures, large antennas, and working warehouses. In the real world, it’s just another defunct island taking after its neighboring land masses coated in years of dust, debris, and ashes. The only structures in sight when first arriving is a vast single-story building (Nagito presumes this was a factory), and the storage warehouse near it. 

The factory was a disappointing exploration. If a bunch of rubble and broken pillars were more interesting, he’d have been captivated. And from the outside, the warehouse looks just as uneventful. But something about it forces Nagito’s hand. Enough to garner the energy to shove the door in and open a gap wide enough for his body. 

As soon as he’s inside, dust and filth irritate every inch of his lungs. Everything smells of rotting wood and locked up mold. He has to squint at the floor to check where to step: the light is limited, and the likelihood of something crawling about seems high. 

The warehouse is a much smaller structure than the factory. It’s spaced like a garage with random stacked crates crowding corners and piling into the space. Old cabinets and standing shelves are haphazardly thrown in across the room, cardboard boxes cradling them. From the information he’s gotten from Makoto, the Jabberwock project was in the works for a solid year before anyone initiated the collection of the remnants. Makoto himself had to sneak around Future Foundation officials to get things rolling. Nagito wonders what if this was a makeshift storage unit for them, or if this clutter was here before the organization decided on the land. 

Nagito steps further in, walking towards the only other visible light source. A faint, shadowed outline of a fan is reflected at the center of the room. He cranes his neck to look up at the built-in ventilator installed in the wall. He can see the layer of dust atop the rim of the blades. He inhales deeply, hoping to find some oxygen— only to cough out the grime in the air. 

Other than the oppressive, unhealthy air quality, something in here is caving his chest in. He’s always somewhat doubted the paranormal, but is this how it feels to walk into a haunted room? 

Near the back of the room, a black curtain cuts off the rest of the space. 

His stomach flips while he stares at it. His legs move on their own toward it. 

What else could possibly be behind this other than a few more storage items? Even while raising his hand to pull the curtain back, his fingers can’t stop twitching. He clenches it into a fist to stop it before forcing himself to reach out and yank.

Nothing is there. The walls at the back of the warehouse are still lined by a few shelves and empty boxes, but save for that, there is nothing there. There’s an empty clearing of floor with in-tact pillars framing it. 

He can’t figure out why he’s still shaking. He tries to trace back memories of the Neo World, as limited as they are. Why does he feel so scared?

He lifts his head. Centered and above the space, there is a rectangular beam connecting two pillars on opposite sides. 

It’s all he stared at while waiting for them. The boom of the door caving in. The rush of their voices when the fire started. The heat and sweat he endured. The grip he kept on the rope, until…  

By the time he snaps back to reality, he realizes too late that he’s started laughing. 

－－－－－－－－－

The sunrise would be mesmerizing to watch were it not purely and strictly red. The silhouette of someone sitting along the edge of the lapping coast would enrich the view to anyone who didn’t recognize them— but Hajime Hinata knows Nagito Komaeda’s outline like the back of his hand, and while they’ve been granted a new beginning, he can’t shake the anxiety bubbling in his bloodstream. 

Irrational. 

God. He can’t even feel emotions in peace anymore. Maybe it’s because he only woke up this morning and consciousness is not doing a great favor to him, but he cannot catch a break from the intrusive thoughts he’s labelling as Izuru. 

Every movement, every item, and every atom triggers some level of recognition from Kamukura. Maybe suppressing this part of himself during the virtual reality is having unexpected consequences. Maybe the injection of Izuru’s talents became his base code and Hajime can’t forget everything that’s been put in his head, not anymore. Or, who knows, maybe Izuru is simply itching for attention. 

Hajime stares at the ocean. The water is a violent shade of red. He can’t imagine Nagito is sitting on the beach for the sake of the view. 

What would Nagito be doing? What has he been doing? 

Makoto arrived in a helicopter after Hajime woke up. He was assured more answers, more clarification on the situation at hand. He was also alarmingly surprised at the amount of details Hajime could recall about everything— the killing game, Hope’s Peak, and their treacherous life prior. 

“Only two of you have woken up so far,” Makoto had filled him in, “It’s been nearly three months since the other woke up.” 

“Who was it?” 

Makoto had looked to the side as if scared to admit it himself. “Nagito.” 

“He’s been awake for three months?” 

“Just about,” Makoto’s voice has dropped considerably. There was no point: the room was empty, all other pods were sealed shut. “But, listen to me, Hajime. He’s in a bit of a fragile state. When he woke up, he didn’t remember much at all. It’s almost like his mind put up a block to forget everything to protect himself. Kyoko and I were having weekly sessions with him, jogging his memory little by little as safely as we could muster. However, we were holding off on talking about how he died in the simulation. It was extremelty traumatic, we weren’t confident about his mental state. But four weeks ago, Byakuya…”

He looks off. It was weird to watch Makoto’s baby face turn irritated, “Byakuya went behind my back and sent Nagito to the warehouse inadvertently. By the time I found out and came here, Nagito was… he’d shut down. I don’t know how else to describe it. I can’t even talk to him meaningfully most days. So when you see him, be mindful of that.” 

Be mindful of that. How can anyone be mindful about the fact that your former friend committed a brutal suicide and left their dead body for you to find? How can anyone approach the same person and exercise caution and respectfulness when your last memory of them is that?

Hajime stares down Nagito’s silhouette in the distance. 

When he first met him, Hajime would have assumed that in this scenario, Nagito was preoccupied in his head. That he could approach this guy on the beach and genuinely go unnoticed. He’d join him sitting, and Nagito would be pleasantly surprised by the company. That he’d act normal. 

Now, after so many encounters with him, and many unpleasant, he knows better. While he approaches Nagito’s silhouette, his footsteps shaky on the sand, he knows Nagito can hear him. Nagito acts preoccupied, in his head, and talks like it too— but more times than not, the thoughts are surprisingly present and relevant. The topics he brought up during class trials initially struck Hajime as frazzled and unrelated, but they always led down the right path. 

He’s ever observant and carefully resigned. He speaks when he deems it important, and withdraws for the same reason. Hajime can’t quite decipher why Nagito hasn’t acknowledged him, though. But he can’t afford to get flat out ignored. 

Hajime stops to stand right beside him, forcing his body into Nagito’s peripheral at least. Nagito finally complies and starts turning his head towards him. When he looks up, Hajime forgets to breathe. 

You’re overreacting. He doesn’t look that different… 

His hair has grown out, his jaw more defined. His eyes look more grey than green, and Hajime wonders if it’s solely because of the dark atmosphere. 

Nagito’s lips part while he stares at Hajime. Particularly at his left eye. 

“Kamukura,” Nagito exhales shakily. His gaze darts to Hajime’s right eye, then flicks between them. A knot between his eyebrows form. “No. Hajime?” 

Hajime opens his mouth to reply while Nagito surveys his hair. He feels self-conscious, suddenly. He’d put his hair into a haphazard, lazy bun to get it out of his face more than anything. It’s not like any appropriate scissors or clippers are ready at hand. He’d woken up in Izuru’s suit and tie, as well, but didn’t have the heart to keep either the tie or jacket on. Jabberwock is hot, either from the general climate or the constant fires not far off. He had to undo the first two buttons of his dress shirt to feel like he could breathe. Standing beside the ocean is helping. 

He licks his lips when he realizes his own silence. He’s been staring at Nagito without replying. He clears his throat and ignores the nerves in his chest. It was always nerves when it came to Komaeda. 

“I’m both,” Hajime manages. Nagito’s expression shifts into awe. Hajime has to tear his eyes away to spare himself the embarrassment. 

“So…” Hajime stares ahead, “If I ask to sit next to you, will you not let me?”

Nagito raises his eyebrows. “What am I supposed to say? That the spot is taken?” 

Hajime presses his lips together through a suppressed smile. He lower himself and sits, keeping his knees up to wrap his arms around them. “I missed your teasing.” He didn’t intend for the sarcasm to end up so prominent. 

“Me? Teasing?” Nagito looks alarmed, “You’ve surely mistaken me for someone. I don’t tease.” 

“Right,” Hajime nods slowly. He turns to Nagito, who’s wearing a smile every bit deceitful. 

Along the shore, the tide has left a clear line marked between the wet and dry sand. They’re sitting just before the cut off. Hajime watches the water lap towards them, surprisingly quaint, slow and peaceful. He closes his eyes against the red sky to soak in the sound of the ocean. At least for a single moment, he can pretend this is calming. He can pretend this reality is satisfying. 

“If I had known you were the one who woke up, I’d have… been there,” Nagito speaks so quietly Hajime leans into him to hear it. His voice is lower and raspier than he remembers. “I saw the helicopter coming in, and Naegi rushing off the dock and to the building. I figured someone must’ve woken up, but I didn’t care enough to see who.” 

“That’s not a very comforting attitude to come from our first survivor.” 

Nagito’s voice sours. “I’d hardly call myself that.” 

“You woke up.” 

He almost rolls his eyes. “It’s just my luck, huh? To get the miracle of life handed back to me on a desolate island. As if it should be called a miracle. That’s too gracious a term…” 

Nagito stares into the horizon. Reflections of red flash in his grey eyes. Hajime traces the bridge of his nose with his gaze. 

“What would you call this, then? If it’s not a miracle.” 

Nagito gives him an incredulous look. 

“Punishment.” He breaks the eye contact to pick at grains of sand and sighs. “I thought I was doing a service to everyone. An act of good charity.”

Hajime looks down. Makoto was surprised at his sufficient memory. Hajime was disappointed. 

Well— Disappointed might be the wrong word. He was annoyed. Disturbed. 

While recalling most of his life with ease has obvious advantages, he didn’t expect to recall things in such detail. It’s not like the information was at the forefront of his mind, but if he took longer than five seconds to spark a memory, it transfixed itself into a full-sensory experience. The scent of the room rushes back to him, the textured details, the space. The posture of his stance, the direction of his eyes, the weight of his clothes. Everything. He wants to blame this on Izuru’s integration, because his memories get even clearer for any event that occurred after the surgery. 

And when it comes to recalling the Tragedy, it is the worst thing he could ask for. 

Slaughters and their stench of blood, the rubble and smoke emerging from old playgrounds, the electrical buzz in the air whenever too many robo-bears gathered in one area. 

Right now, one memory rushes back: the sight of Nagito Komaeda on his knees with his pants pulled down, adjusting messily-applied blood stained gauze tape on both of his thighs. When Izuru— when he had walked in and observed him callously, Nagito looked up, his eyes peeking out from his overgrown bangs, and blinked. 

Of course, their interactions during this time frame stretched further than a single instance, but Hajime is overwhelmed immediately by the overbearing memory of his self-deprecating smile and comments. 

Remnant or not, Nagito’s thought process has always been backwards. 

“I tried to do the one noble thing I could think of,” Nagito says. “And failed.” 

A wave rolls in. A subtle crash pushes the sand and drenches it darker before it recedes. 

“Now I’m expected to believe that I deserve a clean slate? A second shot at life?” 

Hajime leans forward to glare at him. “You do deserve this.” 

Nagito laughs. “Shouldn’t your judgement be better after being injected with every talent in the world?” 

He’s jealous. 

He closes his eyes to stifle Izuru’s ever-present analysis. He can handle this without its help. He is Hajime. He has gotten through worse. 

“You do.” 

“Don’t lie to me. It’s hard enough to believe that coming from someone who consented to a lobotomy.” 

His shoulders tense. Okay. He has gotten through worse, but fucking hell, if Komaeda isn’t still infuriating when he gets snappy. 

“Nagito. I’m not stupid.” 

“I don’t know, Hajime, your words say otherwise.” 

“Don’t look away from me.”

He’s not sure if the sudden anger in his tone is what gets Nagito to reluctantly comply. To finally make eye contact with him again. 

“I am not stupid,” Hajime starts, his words spaced out for emphasis, “I know you love to act like I am, but I’m not.” 

He leans in for good measure, more than confident about his next assertion: 

“You do not wholeheartedly believe that this is punishment. You do not believe that you deserve to die. That all of us deserve to die.” 

“Do I seem like the type to excuse criminals?” 

“You seem like the type to have hope.” 

Nagito freezes. Hajime presses.

“Who left the poison bottle perfectly positioned at the center of your fridge? Who left a single foil from that poison under their bed? Who deliberately left that gas mask and gloves lying around?” 

Nagito recoils as if he’s being shunned. 

“Go on. Answer me,” Hajime continues, “Who did all of that? Because I know Monokuma would not care enough to fabricate evidence for your sake. And I know you’re intelligent enough to know the crumbs you’re leaving behind.”

Hajime doesn’t stop himself even while Nagito refuses to look at him.

“You don’t get to play dumb with me. I have watched you manipulate situations and conversations firsthand. I have seen you in control, you know exactly how to get what you want. You are deliberate in your choices. And while you despised everyone and yourself for becoming despair— You did not make the case impossible.

“You could have left us in the dark. You could have destroyed every single piece of evidence. You could have effectively gotten us all killed. Yet you didn’t. You left just enough so that maybe, just maybe, if someone dared to snoop around enough, they would realize the truth.” 

Nagito’s eyes stay glued ahead. As if acting indifferent absolves Hajime’s words of meaning. 

“Even after finding out the worst, a small part of you had faith in our hope. It’s what let us win the trial.” 

Hajime tries sealing his lips. The next thought is impulsive, and it may be the wrong thing to say, but he can’t stop himself: 

“It’s what makes you exceptional, Komaeda. You… For all your talk about hope, you’re not insincere about it. You really do believe.” 

Nagito finally turns to him, wide-eyed. He clearly wasn’t expecting a compliment. 

“And you couldn’t shake your belief in the people who were trying so hard to stay alive and stay friends. By proxy… call me crazy, but you believe in yourself, too. If you didn’t, you would’ve never dared enact any plan as elaborate and insane as you did.” 

Nagito’s staring at Hajime now. The expression on his face is vague enough to remain unreadable. 

“If you irredeemably embodied despair, through and through, you would have never died for the sake of hope.” 

Hajime takes a deep breath. That was a weight off his chest. 

He’d consumed himself thinking about Komaeda after his trial. He never thought he’d get to confront him with all his conclusions. Hajime stares at the shoreline, the subtle movement of the red water rippling while it rises and falls.

It’s quiet for a long moment before either of them speak. The anxiety that he’s been ignoring speeds up his heartbeat. He touches his own chest as if it’ll suppress it. 

“That’s an admirable conclusion to make, Hajime.”

When Hajime turns to him, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Nagito so relaxed:

“And from a Reserve Course student, no less…” 

“Ha-ha,” Hajime squints at him. “You’re so funny.” 

Nagito breaks into a small giggle, ducking his head into his chest. Hajime stares at him and lets his chest fill with relief. 

“Admirable?” Hajime repeats. He doesn’t realize until now that he’s smiling, too, “Are you admitting that the conclusion is correct?” 

“Now, now,” Nagito says, “Surely the Ultimate Hope can decipher that.” 

“Can you pick a side?” Hajime asks when Nagito laughs again, “Am I a talentless Reserve student, or am I an Ultimate?” 

Nagito hums, dramatically thoughtful. “That depends. Did Kamukura’s endless knowledge help you make that conclusion about me?” 

“No. That was me.” 

“Then the answer is obvious,” Nagito’s eyes shine for the first time. “You’re Hajime.” 

Objectively, Hajime knows this. He knows his identity cannot be ripped in half. He knows his name. 

Still. It’s nice to hear Nagito say it. 

For once, the sound of the ocean waves starts to lull him into relaxing his shoulders. Hajime stares at a small gap in the clouds forming, the single parting point he’s noticed. 

“So, what do we do? It’s just the two of us here.” 

It’s clear that Nagito’s question is more of a big-picture concern. They’re the only two people awake. At this rate, the rest of their classmates will take years to wake up one-by-one. How can they lead such a lonesome life with hope? 

Hajime presses his lips together and glances back towards the buildings. 

Everyone’s pity is burning into her; their silence is unnecessarily suffocating. The same thought processes for everyone. 

Nanami’s last encounter with Komaeda was getting shoved out of his cottage. All because he didn’t want her to find out his suicide plan.

For a very brief moment, it’s almost like they feel sorry for her. Wary and fearful eyes watch her as she fidgets with her sweater sleeves. 

“He’s a fucking psycho,” Souda mutters. 

“Can we not insult the dead?” Sonia forces a smile, “Regardless of what you think of him, it’s obvious Nanami felt close to him. She lost someone who she considered a friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” Nanami tries, but her voice weakens halfway through. She trails into silence, and everyone’s eyes grow even more sympathetic as they watch her duck her head. All at once, she feels the need to crawl into herself and sulk.

Komaeda could not be called a friend.  

Despite every afternoon and morning she had spent with him, a friend was the last thing that he was. A friend meant vulnerability, and honesty, and trust. She had thought moments between them were laced in that— that their time spent together would merge into something, anything meaningful.

But now, standing amidst her classmates, behind the podium of a makeshift courtroom, telling herself that his dead hand isn’t sinking into her sweater … Why would she ever call him a friend? All he did was let her spend time with him. All the effort she’d poured into him. 

Recalling every time he’d smile at her, speak with her. Every time she’d shove herself in front of him during breakfast, every afternoon that she’d get him a gift from the vending machine at the market, every evening that she'd give him her handheld console (and every time he won a luck-based game without trying, sheepishly apologizing, gaining a disapproving frown from her). 

Every time he’d insist he was busy with something not worth her time—pushing her away, because that’s the only thing Komaeda knows to do with anyone who exceeds small talk. And every time she'd force herself into his space regardless, every time she'd sit with him and talk about anything and everything— all in order to remind him he's not alone. Comfortable silence, shared snacks, sincere laughter— every moment floods back. Komaeda would speak about the most mundane things, and Nanami would let herself forget of their circumstances, if just for a moment. 

And he’d thrown that all away.

He’d killed himself and let her hurt in his place. 

Her emotions had meant nothing to Komaeda in the guise of finding a traitor.  All the time she’d spent on him was up and wasted. He was more than willing to forget about her.

“Nanami-san,” Komaeda’s voice is pained.  The urge to spin around and yell at him overtakes her, but she remains. 

“It’s okay,” He says, lying, “You don’t have to call me a friend. You shouldn’t.”

Nanami looks down at her palms. Her hands are shaking. 

“I disappointed you,” Komaeda continues, his words stringing together in a rush. His freezing hand finds her shoulder, and she flinches. “I should’ve stayed away from you. From the start, to spare you.”

Nanami takes a long breath, her chest trembling. 

“You’re stupid, Komaeda,” She whispers, her form still shaking. She wills it to stop, “Really, really stupid.”

“I know,” He replies immediately, “I know.”

His cold arms wrap around her shoulders from behind her. She gasps, shudders through it, when she feels him press against her back. 

“It’s okay,” He lies. Again.

Komaeda’s sweater is as cold as his skin. Even more blood is seeping through parts of his sleeve, trailing down the cloth— the color dark against the green of his coat. The rigid material of his sleeves poke into her neck.

And despite herself, Nanami sinks back into his hold. She isn’t thinking as she does, all she knows is that she hates him for trying to hug her, and she hates herself more for letting it happen. 

But he feels real, and the ice-cold of his embrace almost borders on comfort in an alien way. 

There’s warmth between them, his front and her back, and realizing that it’s likely the ghost of his blood makes her tremble that much more. She grips the podium for a sense of clarity while Komaeda’s dead presence etches into her body. 

A panicked breath rips out of her, and her hands reach up to his looped arms. 

“Tell me I’m stupid again,” Komaeda’s voice is unfairly hurt, “It'll make you feel better.”

She can’t do this. 

“Nanami-san.”

She can’t kid herself. 

“Komaeda,” Nanami forces out, much louder. His name falls sour on her tongue. 

He tightens his hug, almost startled by her acknowledgement. 

The rest of the courtroom refocuses on her. Their eyes are all wary— hesitant to listen to such a shaken voice. 

She’d been denying this ending from the beginning. 

As if a trial would rewrite the story, as if Hinata would find evidence that could absolve her of the idea—the guilt—, as if he could draw a completely different conclusion that didn’t end like this. As if everything hadn’t been culminating to this very moment, all of it handcrafted by Komaeda himself. One final showdown between the traitor and everyone else. 

“Komaeda... is my friend,” Nanami starts, startling the group into silence. Her voice is still trembling, and she’s louder than normal. 

He retracts from her. “Nanami-san—”

“Komaeda is my friend…” She repeats, squaring her frame, “And he’s an idiot. He thinks he should’ve stayed away from me to avoid hurting me. But that’s stupid. I’m the one who befriended him. Even on days that he told me he was tired, and that he didn’t want to talk. Even when you guys were insisting I shouldn't bother. I kept pursuing his company. I knew what it would cost me. People in his life tend to get hurt pretty badly. I knew that would happen to me if I kept talking to him, but I didn’t care.”

Everyone is watching her carefully. 

“I… I still don’t care. Part of me regrets it, because I didn’t know that loss could hurt like this.”

Nanami covers her chest, a hand over her heart. 

“He hurt me. When he died. Because… I spent so much time with him. I thought we were friends. And he turned around and died for this.” 

Silence. Komaeda nearly backs away from her completely, the cold distancing from her. 

“I can’t go back in time and change that. I wish I could. I… I wish to see his live face again, if only for a bit.”

She looks at his trial portrait from across the courtroom. At the bloody cross over his face. 

“And while I can’t see him again, or ever forgive him… What I can do is tell you guys the truth. So I—”

Komaeda leans in. “No—”

“I know who killed him.”

The temperature in the room drops. No one says anything. Except for him. 

“No, no, you’re not thinking this through—” Komaeda presses into her again as if it’ll convince her to stop. 

“What? What the hell do you mean?” Kuzuryuu stares at her, dumbfounded, “Are you saying you know who the traitor is?”

“Don’t— No— You've come so far, you can't just— You can’t—,” Komaeda trips over his words, stumbling over sentences, breaking them in half, in too much of a rush. It’s the last chance he has. 

“Yes,” Nanami replies, ignoring the way that Komaeda’s grip on her is tightening substantially. 

“You don’t want to do this. Nanami-san. The both of us don’t have to die. You can—”

“How? How do you know who it is?” Hinata shoots her a look. 

She has a feeling that he already knows the answer, with the way he’s watching her with reluctance. 

She finds herself smiling, relieved that she wasn’t the only one who’d be carrying the secret. 

Komaeda stammers for another line of reasoning behind her, desperate in overcoming her, as if it’ll make her stay. As if the promise of her life depends on his grip. 

As if he has a say in the way that hope swings. 

“Komaeda is my friend. And I’m the one who killed him.”

“Komaeda-kun. I…”

She opens her mouth to continue, but finds that she can’t figure out how to voice her thoughts. There are too many. 

“Hm? What is it?” Komaeda tilts his head curiously, like a puppy would. 

She stares.

“Surely you didn’t want to spend time with me,” Komaeda laughs after saying this, covering his mouth. “In fact, it is getting late, Nanami-san. I can walk you back to your cottage, if you can stand my presence enough for it.”

“ No ,” Nanami says, nearly interrupting him. His face drops into something of surprise before he recuperates himself, feigning indifference. 

“I want to talk to you,” Nanami’s eyes are trained on his, “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows, “What is it? Do you have something to confess ?”

The traitor. If she was the traitor. 

“No, it’s not that…” She dismisses, “You… You confuse me. You do that a lot. But what you’re doing right now, to the group, it’s a bit much.”

She frowns while connecting her gaze with his, voice strengthening with assertion: 

“I want you to tell me why.”

Komaeda’s expression does not shift as he stares back. As if he’d frozen entirely. The quiet chirping of crickets outside replace his potential response for a few seconds. 

Nanami fights the urge to move before he does. 

“ Why ?” He repeats, his voice dropping like he’s adding to a secret. The corner of his lips quirk up. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, leaning off the door frame. “I’m not sure if I understand your question…”

“You received that file from the Final Dead Room,” Nanami feels nervous bringing it up, “And ever since, you’ve been acting differently. You keep insulting the group. And making comments about whether we actually embody hope… It’s unlike you.”

His expression remains the same. She wonders if he’s somehow zoned out in the middle of their conversation, but the idea is disproved when he begins talking.

“You’re rather observant, Nanami-san,” Komaeda mumbles, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you solved my mystery quickly.”

“Your mystery?”

“Ah, did I confuse you further?” Komaeda scratches the back of his neck, “My sincerest apologies. You know, it is getting rather dark. I can still walk you back to your cottage if you—”

“Komaeda-kun,” His name is more of a threat than anything. “I’m not leaving.”

She hopes the remark sounds sincere and forceful enough. Komaeda stills, taken aback. 

His jaw shifts as he glances over her shoulder, eyeing the cottages with a troubled look. His eyes latch onto something in the distance and go still. He squints— it’s enough for Nanami to turn her head and try to catch what he’d seen, but his voice interrupts it. 

“Would you care to come in for a moment?” 

“Hm? Into your cottage?”

“Yes,” Komaeda’s eager, “It’s warmer, and I wouldn’t want you getting cold. Seeing as you don’t want to leave, that is…”

“Okay,” Nanami nods, and without a second thought, she pushes past him and enters. 

It is substantially warmer inside. She slips her shoes off near the door, moving to the center of the space as she rubs her arms quickly, recuperating from the cold air as she surveys the interior, the door clicking closed behind her. It’s the same as always, save for… 

“Is that a fridge?” Nanami questions without turning to face him.

She stares at the appliance settled beside Komaeda’s bookshelf. The light of the cottage clicks on before his quaint footsteps join her at the center. 

“Ah, yes, that’s a fridge. I got it from the Octagon. Quite the collection of items, that place has. Would you like a cold drink? Water?” 

“Um, no, thank you,” Nanami turns in her place to face him. He smiles while turning away, rushing over to the windows and drawing the blinds closed on each one. 

Nanami returns to gazing around. She’d always been relatively comfortable in his cottage before this, when she’d spend her free time here, but the context has shifted so drastically that she can’t relax her shoulders. She’s nervous for her own questions, for how Komaeda’s going to receive them. The silence isn’t tense, at least. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Komaeda already starts. Nanami looks at him. 

He approaches from the front window, leaning against the post of his bed as he gazes at her. 

“There’s nowhere to sit here…” His eyes turn to the side, “Well, other than that couch provided, but it’s quite stiff.” 

“I didn’t come here for small talk.” 

Komaeda’s gaze snaps back to her. He begins to grin. 

“Of course,” He shrugs and crosses his arms. “What would you like to ask me?” 

A million questions surge through Nanami. She’d considered how to start this confrontation countless times throughout the day, trying to predict how Komaeda would react to every word, how he’d recede back into himself at certain phrases, or blow into a different topic altogether. 

How should she tread these waters, and which questions would get her actual answers and not an empty, back-handed remark? How should she approach him, or look at him, or phrase any of this in a way that intertwines both genuine care and reproach ? What would get him to co-operate with at least some information, if not all? She’s not a perfect program, not by any means, and she wasn’t in any way designed to interrogate mentally unstable teenagers for why they’re being self-destructive. Even so… 

“Where did you find the explosives?” 

The bombs are a decent start. Maybe. 

Komaeda raises an eyebrow before fixing his expression. “The military base.” 

Nanami’s body tenses. There’s a lot of ways to approach this. But there’s no time to consider her options thoroughly, and she needs to make it clear that she won’t be standing for any of his lies. Only Komaeda would catch her real curiosity here.  

“Are they really enough to blow up the entire island? To kill us all?” 

He stares in silence. 

Nanami refuses to look away. She holds her breath, afraid to let herself move. She hasn’t been able to piece together his plan, or what exactly it is that he’s planning— Or how a bomb scare ties any of it together. 

Komaeda glances at the floor. 

“Nanami-san…”

She doesn’t miss the somber tone of his voice. Part of her wants to reply, but the moment is crucial. Anything else could divert the question, and repeating it would only be redundant. Her only option is to succumb to the silence and let it apply pressure. 

Komaeda looks up again, eyeing her. He inhales slowly, like he might sigh, but begins speaking instead.

“There are more than enough to eradicate us. The sheer amount of them is truly alarming. You wouldn’t think anything like it would be at our disposal...”

He’s lying to her face. Monomi had told her— There were no bombs of that magnitude at the military base, no such deathly explosive was provided in the Neo World to begin with. It was a relief to learn there was no threat, but it had left more questions on Komaeda’s intent than ever. What did he gain from threatening to blow the island up? 

“... You know. Komaeda-kun…”

He gazes at her patiently. 

 “... Exploding the island. Leaving it in shambles…” She presses the tips of her fingers to her sweater sleeve, seeking comfort in the cloth, “Leaving no survivors… It isn’t very hopeful of you.” 

Komaeda’s expression relaxes. He breaks into a smile, and she’s spent enough time with him to know this one is genuine— 

“ Oh , Nanami-san,” He lightens up, his voice going airy, “Are you concerned with such a despair-inducing outcome? Or…” 

He presses backwards into the post with a self-satisfied grin. “Perhaps you fear the loss of your life?” 

“That’s not it.”

“Oh? Then what?”

“Well… You wouldn’t be alive to see it. You wouldn’t survive the explosives, either. There’d be no witness for despair, so… There would be no room to grow hope.” 

Komaeda’s eyes widen as his hand moving to cover his mouth. His fingers shake against his lips. He seems to fight off a laugh. 

“You raise valuable points,” His hand slips, “But…”

He pushes off the post, walking up to her. The quiet sound of the floor creaking beneath him is the only sound in the cottage as he moves, looking down at her with only about a hand’s width of distance between them. Their height difference has never felt as dramatized— it forces Nanami to crane her neck up to look at him. His smile drops as he leans into her, almost as if taunting her. 

“I have the inclination that you’re implying something here.” 

His voice is a whisper, but their proximity makes the syllables ring loud. She tries to feign indifference, like she’s seen him do countless times by now. Maybe she can get out of this. Maybe he’s not saying what she thinks he’s saying, and maybe— 

Maybe this would be so much easier without these stupid mind games.

She doesn’t want to walk around eggshells. Honesty is good, right? Would it scare him away, to hear it outright? He already knows, from what it seems like. It shouldn’t scare him away, if she called him out— Or maybe he likes the feeling of an unspoken understanding between them, maybe he’s provoking her and enjoying it all the same, and that’s no good, is it? So—

“Why are you lying about the bombs?” Nanami whispers back. 

And it’s a mockery, the way Komaeda’s smile widens. She thought he’d at least have the decency to act clueless about the accusation, but he must know it’s no use. Or he must know that if she were to tell anyone, she’d be incriminated for having the knowledge at all.

“My, my, Nanami-san,” Komaeda leans down further, “You’re accusing me of being a liar? I would never lie to symbols of hope such as yourself, right?” He tilts his head and laughs, breathy and caught up in his own teasing. She clenches her teeth. 

“Right, isn’t that right ?” He drawls sarcastically, “ I’m not lying about the bombs…”

His face turns sour in half a second, bitterly muttering, “Why would I ever lie to a worthy Ultimate?” 

Nanami shakily parts her lips and breathes evenly. His harsh words as of recently don’t do much to sour her mood, but it’s incredibly demeaning when he’s towering over her like this. 

“You know…” Komaeda’s voice returns, his expression pensive as he stares into her face. His tone is so low that his words are even raspier than usual, “In such unfortunate circumstances, desperate motives call for desperate measures. Our dear traitor needs a little push in the right direction.” 

“Is that the only reason?” Nanami tries, her voice steady at least, “Is that the only reason why you’re terrorizing us?” 

“Well, if I’m being honest. Having such control over all your fears certainly is a little entertaining,” He giggles, “Don’t you hate me yet? Aren’t I vermin? To enjoy all of you panic like this…” 

His hand trembles against his skin, eyes going hazy, riding some high Nanami doesn’t care to label. 

She looks down. Enjoying the tormenting is one thing, but what he’s trying to accomplish is something else entirely.

“Would you kill them? For the traitor?” 

Komaeda perks up.

“Nanami-san?” 

“Would you kill the rest of your classmates if it meant the traitor would be revealed?” Nanami tries bracing for the worst possible reply. If he were willing to commit mass murder like that, if he were truly honest about wanting to hurt them all as such… 

She wouldn’t know what to do. 

Komaeda is slow to processing the question. The cottage is silent as both wait. 

“... To massacre a group such as you all would be quite hopeless, don’t you think?”

The negation that he’d actually do it, that he'd actually pull the trigger on all their lives, rushes to her heart in relief. She wishes the tone were lighter, so she could relax, but the threats of his words all day still hang in the air. The dread and weight of his eyes sinks her encouragement, it keeps her arms glued to her sides. 

Komaeda watches the hope flicker in her eyes with a worried face.

“Nanami-san,” He’s whispering again, like this next part is truly a secret, “I think you’re mistaking my motives here. I only wish for the traitor to be a bit honest with me.” 

“... And when they’re honest with you,” She struggles to get the words out, “What will you do?” 

“That’s business I would only want to discuss with them, right?” He backs away from her, granting them some space. “I wouldn’t want to taint you with the burden of my ideas.”

“Am I safe in assuming that all of this, your behavior, and whatever it is you’re planning… Is because of the file you read?” 

“… That would be a safe assumption.” 

“So… the information it has is what made you think this was appropriate?”

He nods slowly.

Nanami has never hated her programming as much. Future Foundation had the heart to tell her to take care of everyone, yet they failed at providing clear context. It wasn’t an issue that always bothered her, not when her only priority was maintaining calm and comforting people— she was glad just to brighten their days, provide some hope. She didn’t need the full story.  But when trying to maintain someone like Komaeda now, who now seems to carry more information than even her , it’s more than bothersome. 

“Tell me what is says.”

“... I’m not sure if I should tell you,” Komaeda’s voice lilts, dropping again, “Can you keep a secret?” 

It’s obvious he won’t tell her, with the way he looks off and sighs. 

“It really is late,” He starts again, glancing at the door, “I wouldn’t want to keep you long.” 

A dismissal. Nanami frowns.

“Hold on. You read the file, and you decided we aren’t worth your time, right? Can you at least confirm that?” 

“Would you like an apology? I could grant you one, but I’m afraid the words would ring hollow.” 

“You trust the traitor over us?” 

“I never said I trusted them.” 

“You’re willing to find them while you’ve been mocking your classmates. What other conclusion can someone really draw?”

“You try too hard to make sense of me,” Impossibly, his eyes soften. He looks away, “Even while everyone else disregards me so easily… But you—” 

He presses his lips together, shutting himself up. “You… You’ve always been rather thoughtful of me. Even as insufferable as I am.” He crosses his arms, his fingers digging into his skin, tightening. 

Despite herself, Nanami leans into the impulse to approach him. She rests her hand atop his softly, searching for his reaction. Komaeda’s eyes dart up, initially reclining from the touch. She grazes her thumb over his skin quickly, meaning to reassure him. 

Nanami had always hesitated before making contact with him. The few times she’d tried it while they spoke or accompanied each other, he’d freeze up, looking like a deer in headlights— as if he couldn’t discern the meaning behind the gesture, or it was so unfamiliar that he couldn’t possibly enjoy it. He wears the same face, even now. 

“Komaeda-kun,” She focuses on his face. 

The hand beneath hers trembles slightly. 

“Tell me the truth. Are you doing all of this… The bomb threats… Just for the sake of finding a traitor?” 

Komaeda’s wide eyes seem fully frightened now. He harshly pulls back, stepping away. Nanami’s hand slips off of him, left hanging in the air in his absence. 

“Nanami-san. It's about time you should leave.”

She gazes at him until he looks at her. When he does, her face falls, shoulders sinking. Her hand is still in the air, hovering as she pulls her fingers into her palm, sadly staring at him. 

“You are quite determined,” Komaeda looks at the ground again, his face flushing slightly, “I always liked that about you. You always face things head-on, you know? It’s such an admirable quality.” He reaches up to the back of his neck, digging his nails into the skin there too. “To come into my cottage and insist I answer to you, when everyone else is too fearful of me to do so. It’s quite bold of you. You’ve always been far too considerate with me. We’ve spent a lot of time together on these islands. And…”

He visibly gulps. “I do appreciate that. Completely. I even… Well, it’s quite embarrassing to say, but I’ve always wanted to consider you a… a—”

“Friend?” Nanami supplies, her voice quiet, “We are friends.” 

Komaeda’s shell shocked. He stares at her, waiting , like he’s expecting her to elaborate, or maybe even retract her words. She doesn’t.

“Ah… Aha… Right. Of course.” 

“And,” Nanami doesn’t wish to ruin the moment, but she had a goal here. “I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, while being my friend.” 

Komaeda’s expression sinks. Nanami inhales shakily and continues,

“Be honest with me. The bombs are fake.” 

“... It seems there’s no convincing you otherwise,” He’s disappointed. 

“When the bombs don’t destroy the island, what’re you planning to do?” 

“You don’t need to worry about it. You won’t have to.” 

“Is anyone going to be hurt?” 

“You’re worrying.” 

“You refuse to tell me anything. That makes me worry.” 

“I’d rather you trust me about something like this. My apologies, really. You came all this way to find answers and had to deal with my lack of compliance.” 

Nanami tightens her jaw.

“Tell me that everyone’s going to be safe tomorrow.”

Komaeda sighs. 

“You’ll all be safe tomorrow. My faith is in you. All of you. Because of that, this will all work out.” 

Nanami watches his eyes carefully, waiting for any kind of indication that he’s lying. It doesn’t come. His gaze is fixed on her feet, mind faraway as a lull settles between them. With no words exchanged in this peace, Nanami lets her eyes drift from him to contemplate what on earth to say next .  What can she say? Her options are remarkably limited, if he insists on the air of secrecy, and there’s no way to force him to talk from a rational standpoint. She’d need something drastic… 

Her eyes fall to the bookshelf. Komaeda had gathered a few books from the library throughout their time on the islands— it seemed to be the only place that interested him the most, and it was often that her best bet was to find him there when no one else knew his whereabouts.

She eyes the fridge beside the shelf. 

“I can walk you back to your cottage now,” Komaeda says suddenly, his voice numb. He walks away from her, heading for the door.

Nanami’s gaze remains still. 

Cold drinks…

The inkling of an idea crawls into her mind. 

Komaeda never seemed like the type to keep snacks on hand. And as much as she wished he were so self-serving, he would not keep a refrigerator in his room just to stay hydrated… Would he? 

The warmth of Komaeda’s hand finds her shoulder, the touch almost not present entirely.

“Nanami-san.” 

A fridge. In Komaeda’s cottage. From the Octagon . A place full of weaponry. To keep cold drinks? 

She has to hold her breath so as not to spoil her conclusion, her eyes skimming down the appliance and settle for the handle. She’s not too far from it. 

Her resolve comes in a burst— in an abrupt movement, her legs kick into a run, closing the distance to the fridge in a second. Her hand locks around the handle, yanks it back—

She’s pulled forward by her wrist, the parted fridge door slamming shut with the motion. Nanami stumbles, her feet quickly finding balance. Her eyes bolt up. 

Komaeda is before her, his hand tightly gripping her wrist, standing tall between her and the appliance. His eyes are empty as he stares down at her. 

“It’s late , Nanami-san,” His voice is clipped and hollow. The grip on her wrist doesn’t relax. He raises her arm with it, almost threateningly. “You should get some rest.” 

Her lips part in surprise, intently watching his face. “K-Komaeda-kun.”

“I did offer to walk you, but I’m getting quite tired,” He says flatly. His eyes bore into her, like he’s about to snap. 

“ Komaeda-kun— ” Nanami tries, louder this time, deciding to stand her ground, regain her arm. 

“I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to stay any longer,” He looks her up and down, “A boy and a girl spending time together at such a late hour is—” 

He begins to walk to the door, forcibly dragging her along by his hold.

“Komaeda—!” She tries yanking back at her hand, but it’s no use. His grip is stronger than she thought in this desperate moment. 

He reaches the entrance and ducks to grab her shoes before swinging the door open, yanking her out of his cottage despite her protests. 

“Stop it—!” 

With a harsh motion, he shoves her shoes into her arms and retreats inside. He slams the door against her voice. 

A small click sounds out. Locked.

“Komeda-kun!” Her voice rings out into the night, boiling with frustration.

The lights in the cottage go out, and she loudly groans, quickly securing her shoes beneath one arm and banging on the door with her fists. The wood wobbles beneath each hit, accompanied by her voiced pleads. 

“You— Let me—!” At this point, she’s taking her anger out on it. “You’re so—!”

She feels the urge to curse, but can’t quite bring herself to. Instead, her throat sounds something between a scream and groan. 

… It would’ve been a lot smarter if I tricked him into opening it…

With a disheartening sinking feeling that’s undeniably defeat, she buries her face in her hands, her shoes clattering to the creaking dock beneath her feet. She glowers at the ground, puffing out her cheeks, completely dissatisfied. With the edge of her toes, she upturns her shoes, still frowning while slipping them on.  Should’ve just asked for a bottle of water…

“Nanami?” 

Her head jerks up. She twirls around. 

She’d been way too loud. 

“ Ah— Hinata-kun?” 

It’s certainly him. 

He’s on the main dock, straight ahead, his shoulders hunched nervously as he practically glares between her and the cottage nameplate. There are dark circles framing his eyes, his brown hair in disarray, like he’d been struggling to sleep. Which is more than likely. 

“Nanami…” Hinata’s voice is soft and cautious. “What’re you…”

Nanami’s back straightens. 

Her lips press together, expression forcibly drawing a blank. 

“Did… did he hurt you?” Hinata inches closer, silently, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I heard you yelling. No one else seems to have heard it. I’m guessing they’re asleep, since everyone’s exhausted. Did he—”

“No,” Nanami maintains steady eye contact, “He didn’t hurt me.”

Not much , she thinks. The pain in her wrist hasn’t exactly let up. 

Hinata’s shoulders don’t relax. He squares his eyes. “You were yelling . And banging on his door… What the hell did he do?”

Nanami doesn’t answer. Her face remains set. 

“God, why were you even in his cottage in the first place? What, did you guys decide to have some tea together the night before this island goes under—”

Hinata’s expression shifts abruptly— His eyes widen considerably. 

He stares , “... Did you... tell him something?”

“That I’m the traitor?” Nanami asks calmly. Hinata flinches. 

“No,” Nanami’s voice remains steady, “Because I’m not.”

“Why the hell did you spend time with him, then?”

“I’ve always spent time with him,” Nanami replies without hesitating.

“Yeah, back when he wasn’t threatening to kill us all ,” Hinata snaps back, “Seriously, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m…” Nanami wants to explain herself, but the thought of trying to dive into everything drains her. 

“I’m going to bed,” A wave of drowsiness hits her as she rubs her eyes. She begins her walk, sluggishly moving to pass by Hinata, but he grabs her arm. 

“Nanami.” He’s desperate. 

Nanami turns around. She stares him down. The pleading look in his eyes screams out at her. 

It would be nice, really nice, if this topic were the kind she could divulge with him. But she has to bite her tongue, whether she likes it or not. 

“Hinata-kun,” Nanami replies, her voice level, “Let me go. Please.”

Hinata stares up at her, clearly hurt. He grimaces, his nose scrunching up, a long silence falling between them. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but seems to lose merit halfway through. 

He lets his grip fall. 

“Good night,” She says without looking at him, before twirling back around and beginning to walk to her cottage. 

She tried clearing her mind as she prepared herself for bed, but it was impossible. Her mind couldn’t stop racing, and it was tethered at the thought of Komaeda plotting something with whatever it was he was hiding in the fridge. 

Komaeda, who was usually painfully honest with her, concealing something. She’d try greeting him in the morning. She’d wake up early, and rush to his cottage, say her good morning to him, and hope that he’d pretend last night didn’t happen as well. And proceed to prod him with questions nonetheless. It would be fine. 

It’s not like he’d die in his sleep. 

Komaeda’s green eyes finally look up at her with a patient grin. She’s standing right in front of his desk. And for once, she gets to feel taller than him since he’s sitting. 

“Hm? Did you say something?” 

“You’re reading a vampire romance,” Nanami repeats, bending lower at the waist to inspect more of the cover. Komaeda lowers his book and lays it flat on the table, still open to the page he was at.

The classroom has filled out with the rest of their peers, and the bell rang to signal the start of class, but Miss Yukizome must be running late because she’s nowhere in sight. Most of their classmates have receded into their friend groups, sharing morning snacks, talking and gossiping. The golden light of the morning sun is illuminating the classroom through the windows. 

Usually, Nanami spends her time before class absorbed in her Gamegirl, never once looking up. But today, she defeated a level of her Zelda game after countless tumultuous tries and was relieved enough to lift her gaze. She caught the moment Komaeda stopped by his seat, shrugged off his bookbag and pulled out the chair for himself. 

She’s been trying to spend more time with him after noticing his lack of interaction with their classmates. Nanami had gotten the chance to befriend everyone else in their class, yet Komaeda had managed to sink into the background and let himself go unseen. He can’t disappear forever, though, and she’s made sure to remind him of it. 

“A vampiric romance,” Komaeda tests the words while he smiles at her. “You must be seeing things. I can’t recall that’s in my taste.” 

Nanami leans further over his desk, letting herself stoop low enough to rest her arms on the surface. She spins the book to face her and traces the first line of dialogue that catches her eye. 

“‘And so, the lion fell in love with the lamb’,” She reads aloud. “‘What a stupid lamb’.”

“‘What a sick, masochistic lion’,” Komaeda drones back, grabbing the book to pull it back. “Was this the wrong move, Nanami-san? Has my choice in book today offended you?”

“No,” Nanami states calmly, “I just didn’t think you’d choose to read that.” 

She walks around his desk and bumps the side of his chair with her leg lightly. He scoots to the side to give her room to sit. The seat isn’t wide enough for two, but Miss Yukizome will likely arrive soon, so it’s not like they’ll stay here for long. 

“You’re right, as usual. This book was never in my interest,” Komaeda says pensively, flipping the book to its synopsis, so he could inspect it with her. 

“Then why read it?” 

“Oh, I found it in pristine condition in the school’s dumpster,” Komaeda replies brightly, “I fell and hit myself against the metal of it and this landed right beside me.” 

Nanami frowns. “Are you okay?” 

“Hm? From the fall?” He shrugs it off, “Well, I’m alive, aren’t I? Don’t concern yourself with me.” 

“Was that recent?” 

“It was yesterday,” Komaeda says, “I was walking home from campus and I tripped on a pencil someone must have dropped. It must have looked embarrassing from the outside. All I remember is the crash of the impact and the dizziness keeping me on the ground for a little.” 

Nanami blinks. “That’s intense.” 

Komaeda laughs. “It was really nothing. And I got a free book out of it.” 

Nanami opens her mouth. She hesitates for a beat before getting herself to speak. 

“Would you stop that?” 

Komaeda raises his eyebrows. “Stop what?” 

“Dismissing yourself. You push away negative experiences in favor of the single good thing that come out of them.” 

He nervously looks to the side. “Is that a bad thing?” 

“The way you do it, yes. You don’t let yourself complain about the negatives. You know…” She leans a little closer, “It’s not healthy to keep those emotions in you. You can’t always turn things hopeful. It’ll end up backfiring eventually.” 

Komaeda stares at her without a discernible expression. 

She looks away from him before quietly finalizing her words. “...I think… Anyway, are you liking the book?” 

Komaeda looks at the open novel and quickly puts on a smile.

One of the many things Nanami appreciates about him is his ability to drop conversations the second she wordlessly requests it. Trying to teach Komaeda that his feelings matter is a long-term lesson to apply. She can’t act so straightforward at eight in the morning on a single Wednesday. If she continued, he’d shut down at her persistence and end up pushing her away. Which is the last thing she wants. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t say I’m a fan thus far…”

“You’ve enjoyed half of it,” Nanami says, pointing at the edge of the pages. “You can’t deny it because I can see how much you've read.” 

“Mmm, I fear you’re seeing the wrong things, Nanami-san. I have merely tolerated the book for two-hundred-and-some pages.” 

“Like how I tolerate the games I spend any of my time on?” 

The side of Komaeda’s lip quirks up. 

“Now that I think about it, I also recently tolerated a visual novel where the main love interest was a vampire,” Nanami continues, “So I guess blood-sucking romances are something we both feel whatever about.” 

“I’m honored to have something in common with an Ultimate.” 

“You’re an Ultimate, too,” Nanami says. “And my friend.” 

Komaeda almost rolls his eyes. “Generous as always.” 

“I’m being sincere,” Nanami reaffirms. She ignores the skeptical look in Komaeda’s eyes and goes back to skimming the page of his book. 

“Why is he talking about the smell of her throat?” 

Komaeda shrugs, “I’m not well versed in brooding vampires.” 

“Maybe after you read this book, you will be,” Nanami suggests. “Oh, and once you are, you can help me finish that visual novel. There are some choices that stumped me the last time.” 

“So we can experience a tolerable story together?” 

"Yeah. And obviously not find any of it enjoyable."

"Somehow, I feel your company could change that, Nanami-san."