@roborights has met an unfortunate fate.
On that fateful day, 'Kokichi Ouma' died. Even if his body lived on, in blind spots and places the mastermind didn't think to look, until the staff found him after the trial and were forced to rehabilitate him per their rules, the spirit of Kokichi Ouma had died. To the others, the supreme leader perished underneath that press and he wanted to keep things that way.
Not all truths needed to be known.
That was, until he came across a pile of scrap metal in an alleyway. He lowered his sunglasses. Tilted the wide-brimmed hat, fiddled with his face mask, then glanced around. Wheeling closer only confirmed his suspicions; another dead man like him, collapsed and, apparently, still moving (or was) even after the thrashing the game put them through. If this were the old days, he might even force him awake to make fun of him.
But this was not Saishuu and Ouma had no tools on hand to do anything useful (like always). Instead, after some huffing, puffing, wheezing, and strained limbs, he managed to haul Kiibo into his wheelchair, wobbling the entire way home with pained legs. (It wasn't like it was the first time Ouma stupidly decided to defy the confines of his wheelchair, but it was the first time he had to haul something so heavy home...)
Luckily, technology wasn't entirely unknown to him. The first plan he had was to hack into Kiibo's mainframe and force his way back into the game, but his hospitalization had other plans for him. After scouring the internet for an adapter to plug Kiibo into and aimless pushing of whatever buttons his grubby mitts could touch, Kiibo was, for the most part, charging and powered on.
Ouma's face was uncomfortably close, with no regard for his personal space. "Are you awake now, you stupid toaster?" He bonked his fist on top of his head. "You should pay my rent and my electrical bills for how long I've had to house your hunk of metal! Yeesh, talk about taking advantage of my kindness and overstaying your welcome..."
His apartment, for the most part, was what you'd expect from him. The odd object was littered about the floors, curtains drawn and lights dim. White paper covered the wooden brown of his tabletops, his television paused on a video game he had been aimlessly playing in the breaks he took in between fiddling with Kiibo. Empty plastic bags that once contained snacks were also either on the couch or in the trash. (A perceptive eye might notice the many locks installed on his front and back doors.)
In other words, his lifestyle was similar to that of a NEET.
