Uso dayo!

You were looking for something.

You sat in class every day, back in the corner, observing. Listening to the goings on in the world around you. You were due to graduate this year, and after that? Well, you weren’t entirely sure. They said you would be set for life, and so you never thought much about it.

One of your underclassmen was absent from school for a few months, and when they returned, they were missing an eye. A date gone awry, they’d told you. An occupational hazard when going on dates with the Ultimate Luckster of Class 77-B. That makes sense. What a harrowing thing. You wondered what happened to the manhole cover. Did they still use it? Or was it thrown away for its crimes? You wondered if it still had a stain on it—an artifact of what transpired that day. You wish you could find it.

You loved artifacts.

Little bits of memory, little bits of life. You liked to collect them. Anything that spoke to the testament of humanity, be it information, or hobbies, or random little knick knacks that might have meant something to someone once, you would collect them. Your room was full of half-read books and half-finished projects, and half-baked arrangements. It was odd, you knew. The Ultimate Hoarder, they called you.

One of the first years in the hall was scolding another student for their untucked shirt. Against school policy, he’d said. Not so. Technically speaking, school policy is that all base components of the uniform must be present, but Main Course students are free to customize to the specifications of their Talent as they desire. You walked by without comment. You didn't want to stir up even more of an argument.

You had an approximate knowledge of many things.

Misunderstandings led to disagreement, and so you tucked information away to understand what the truth was. One person might cite a source, but misremember it in favor of aligning it with what they would like to think to be true. It was another little bit of humanity, the way information warped, and so you kept track of it. People got tired of you butting in to correct them, though. The Ultimate “Um, Actually,” they called you.

Another underclassman started talking about a friend from the Reserve Course going missing. No one else really mentioned it much besides her. They played video games together sometimes, but just stopped showing up one day, she’d told you. That he was talking about Talent and wanting to be something more.

You wondered what he was like. What it felt like to not be Talented. You weren’t sure if it would be much different than how you felt now. What did he like? What hobbies did he have? Did anyone besides your underclassman miss him?

What was it like to be missed? Was there even a way to know how something like that felt?

Then one of the first years went missing one day. He was a major cultural icon even outside of Talent—or rather, his Talent was because he was a cultural icon. Or was that just how his Talent worked? You weren’t sure. It was another one of those things you wondered about—the chicken or egg of Talent.

You digress.

The point was that he was an icon, and so it was a very big deal when he disappeared. Everyone was talking about it—what the family would do, if there was a ransom, all the juiciest gossip. You wondered about it, too, but differently.

You wondered where he was, what he was doing. His classmates all seemed very distraught, so the likelihood it was a willing disappearance was slim to none. You wondered if he was scared. You wondered what being kidnapped felt like—another one of those experiences that will always sit just out of your reach of full understanding. People found that odd, too. The Ultimate Morbidly Curious, they called you.

Then there was an incident, and suddenly your class was half the size that it was before. You weren’t in the Student Council, so you didn’t really have any idea what happened. You wanted to know. You wanted to know so badly. It was an unfortunate accident, the school had said. That didn’t make sense at all.

You wondered about the Reserve Course boy who disappeared.

You wondered about the first year boy who also disappeared.

You wondered just how much was going unknown to you. Undocumented. Lost.

It itched at you.

The year came and went like this, watching all these things unfold in your periphery. Picking them up along the way. Carrying them with you. You want to know. You want to understand. You don’t know why. It just felt necessary. Someone had to record it all. Someone had to remember. You wanted to remember everything. Be everything. Collect it all and—

And then the world ended. You are still looking for something.

“So then, what exactly were you expecting to come of all this?”

Your question was left hanging in the dead air of the abandoned classroom, unanswered. The entire trip had been like this—hours of travel and unanswered questions. You'd think he would have been ignoring you had it not been for the fact of your presence itself. You weren't supposed to be here, and he was the reason you were here anyway.

For all he droned about predictability, Kamukura had a penchant for being unpredictable.

"Miss Junko will come to retrieve me."

Say something, anything.

"She will."

Your eyebrows lift at the unexpected response. Perhaps you can needle.

"She will not be pleased."

"She will not."

"What will you do when she comes, then?"

"I will return you."

"That can't be right. What, then, would be the point of taking me in the first place?"

"What use is the answer to you if the result is the same either way?"

You pause. "What do you mean?"

"You think yourself an object, proctor, and yet an object does not wonder why it is stolen."

Something twinged in your chest.

"Naturally Miss Junko will be asking."

"If she were to ask anyone, it would be me." Kamukura did not wait for a rebuttal, seemingly bored of the topic. "And what of Enoshima?"

"What of her?"

"You have confidence in her ideals?"

You scoff. "As you say, it is hardly the place of a tool to consider its use."

"In other words, you do not and wisely choose to withhold it."

You bite your tongue. Kamukura does not elaborate, and so another frustrating curtain of silence falls. The afternoon was beginning to bleed into evening and the sun was setting, spilling its blood red light across the sparse classroom floor. The whole conversation he had been staring out the windows, but you could almost feel his gaze nonetheless. Studying you. Pondering. Calculating. Just as unsettling, and yet different from Miss Junko's manic analytical gaze. It was somber, distant, and shrouded in incomprehensible questions that he seemingly already knew the answer to.

Where Miss Junko felt like a child curiously tearing the legs and wings off of a helpless bug, Kamukura felt like a haunting apparition seeking something unknowable that it misplaced in you.

You wonder if Kamukura thinks he will ever find it, or if that melancholy is his true despair.

"What brings you to ask such things anyhow? Weren't you the one who said it's not the place of an object to wonder?"

"And yet you do. If you wonder about one thing, it is predictable that you would wonder about other things."

"And you want to know what I wonder about why, exactly?"

After a long pause on Kamukura's part, he seemed to settle on an answer. "You just seem to feel strongly about a lot of things, proctor."

The statement was disjointed, lacking some context you could not fathom, a connection unseen to you, but wholly comprehensible to the Ultimate Talent himself. He did not care to elaborate. He never did. Instead, he turned the questions back again.

"If your feelings do not matter, as an object, then why do you have them?"

Izuru turned to see the proctor's face. As he'd predicted: the faint twitch of an eye, the perplexed scrunch of a brow. A small sign of confusion. A betrayal of doubt. The proctor was thinking for himself, and so there was still something in there to be nurtured—

At this time of evening, the sunset lit the classroom like a flame. Two stories below a dog could be heard barking in the street. Clouds approximately twenty kilometers to the east suggested a 46% chance of rain. Enoshima would be noticing the proctor's absence by now, and the estimated time of arrival would be eight hours.

The breeze drifted unabated by shattered windows and caught in blond hair cast golden in the sunset. Izuru took a brief reprieve to enjoy the way the light danced off the strands and that vaguely perplexed gaze, before his brain caught up with the calculations of refraction and it became predictable again. Predictable, but, for whatever reason, not dull.

—That was all Izuru needed to know.

Kokichi couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered soaking in the bath of his own accord.

It just seemed like a waste of time—more mindless dead air in his day that would only serve to spoil his mood dwelling on the rot and the drudgery and the off-kilter sense of soul-sucking ennui. He had enough on that on his daily commute, all through class, laying in bed in the middle of the night. He didn't need one more place to stew, so he simply didn't. Not on his own, anyway.

Saihara had given him a bath once. He didn't enjoy it very much.

Now here he was, watching with mild unease as Amami adjusted the settings for the bath—how fancy for him to have the type of bath that had temperature settings. Even so, he tested the water as it filled the tub. Kokichi fidgeted in the doorway, squeezing Puppy to his chest, unsure what was expected of him. Was Amami going to join him in the bath or was this just for him? Did Amami want him to undress himself? Did he want to undress Kokichi? Kokichi wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The silence and uncertainty was starting to take him out of it. He was thinking too much, trying to think big boy thoughts.

As if sensing his unease, Amami finally glanced back and smiled warmly, waving Kokichi closer. He padded over obediently, his thumb wandering its way to his mouth to nibble at the pad.

"There's my sweet little angel," Amami cooed. Kokichi's heart couldn't help but flutter in both giddiness and apprehension. "You looked a little nervous, so I've got an extra special surprise to help make bath time a little more fun."

Amami reached behind him and held up a bottle, but kept the label out of sight so Kokichi couldn't tell at first glance what it was. A scented body wash, perhaps? The guess went out the window when Amami abruptly unscrewed the cap and tipped some of the contents into the bath as it filled. Kokichi's eyes widened as the water began to froth and foam, building up mountains of—

"Bubbles?"

Amami smiled brightly, as if delighted in Kokichi's simple response. "That's right, baby! You're so clever, aren't you?"

Kokichi's stomach did flips at the gushy condescension. It was so excessive, but different from the way Saihara had done it. Warmer. More encouraging. Kokichi felt himself slip a little more under the force of Amami's enthusiastic babying, humming idly as he watched the bubbles rise.

That's right, Mimi was the grownup here. All Kokichi had to do was listen and do as he was told and everything would be fine.

It was just as he expected.

Kokichi crouched on the floor of the empty room, examining the floorboard in front of him. He reached out, carefully pushing it down and watching as it lowered into the floor, the other end raising up into the air like a see-saw. As he thought, the loose floorboard under Chabashira hadn't been a coincidence. It was safe to say the third room also had a loose floorboard just like this one, meaning that it was a premeditated setup. That just left the question of how exactly it was relevant to this case.

The floorboard lowered back into place as he retracted his hand, unassuming in its placement. Kokichi stood, eyeing the floorboard warily. You'd never be able to tell if you didn't already know it was there. It'd be so easy to just step right through it and gravity would do the rest—what a nasty way to fall! It was a good thing that Kokichi had already had a sneaking suspicion of its presence.

He stole an apprehensive glance to the door.

No one else was in this room. No one else—besides the culprit, of course—knew that the floorboard was here. More importantly, no one else knew that Kokichi knew the floorboard was here.

He looked down at the floorboard again, a familiar ache in his chest.

He was tired. Tired of trying, tired of dancing around, walking this tightrope to keep everyone safely distant and yet close enough to handle. Tired of how everything he tried backfired, because no one gives the benefit to a lair. And yes, maybe he was a liar, but what was so inherently terrible about that? Why should he have to explain himself? Why was it, whenever people realized you were a liar, it was always the good things, the vulnerable things, that were expected to be lies?

Simple, because it was easier to not care that way.

It was easier to assume he was fine and dandy. It gave them peace of mind to think he would never dare to be vulnerable or honest about his feelings. They couldn't prove it one way or the other, right? So they could go on thinking it was a lie and that they didn't really have to worry about him.

No, Kokichi enjoyed the killing game. He said so himself, and that was the truth. Wanting it to end? Being afraid that he might be the next to die? Missing the people they'd lost? Clearly those were the lies. Even the Ultimate Detective thought so. Who was Kokichi to argue? They'd believe whatever they wanted either way.

But he was still tired, and maybe—just maybe—he wanted something they couldn't just write off. Something that they'd see with their own eyes that was undeniably bad. An excuse for someone to show him just a little bit of concern, just once.

Kokichi tested the board with his shoe again, watching it dip into the floor as the other end rose into the air. No one would know. No one could know.

It would be such an easy, unfortunate accident.

Would it swing up and hit him in the face? There was nothing to stop it, so probably. Maybe it'd break his nose. Maybe it'd bleed. His foot would go down in the hole, would it hit the dirt below? Would he twist his ankle? Would he break his leg? Kokichi shuddered.

Well, it'd be hard to deny the severity of something like that.

What was he thinking? They had cases to investigate. Two cases. There was no way Monokuma would excuse someone with an injury, and even if he did, Kokichi would hardly rest easy putting his faith in everyone to figure it all out without him. It was ludicrous to even entertain the idea, and yet...

He thought about how everyone cried over the victims. The concern and sorrow and compassion at every body discovery. Kokichi didn't want to die, necessarily, but...

It would be nice, just once, for even a fraction of that compassion to be bestowed upon him.

So maybe, as he pondered the case, he started to pace back and forth across the room a little bit. And maybe, after a while, he was so lost in thought that he stopped paying attention to the floor. No one was there to see. No one would know. How was Kokichi to know the floorboard was there?

It was a completely unavoidable accident.

When his foot disappeared into the floor, his entire body pitched forward on reflex to try to catch himself. The board flew up, meeting the crown of his forehead with a loud CRACK! as a sharp pain exploded across his skull. He slumped to the ground, and then there was silence. For just a moment, Kokichi laid there on the floor, assessing the results.

His head was pounding, the sharp, concentrated pain of the initial blow now softened to a more generalized throb. His nose was sore from bumping it as he collapsed face-first, but didn't seem to be broken, and his leg fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—was completely fine.

Damn, that was it...? Kokichi's stomach twisted at the thought. He didn't want to think about what it said about him for that to be his overall reaction to being struck in the head with a floorboard.

Or the fact he deliberately struck himself in the first place.

Something warm and wet dribbled down his face from somewhere near the top of his head. Blearily, he reached up to dab at it, pulling his fingers away to find them stained with blood. Oh. Well, even if it wasn't too bad, that much blood would make it look worse than it was, right? And if he let it keep bleeding, then maybe he could get some extra dizziness out of the deal. That'd really sell it.

What was he thinking?

Kokichi groaned, pushing himself up to his knees and then stumbling to his feet. His vision seemed fine, and his thoughts were starting to precipitate back to something more comprehensible. Normally, that'd be good, right? It was just a bump and nothing would come of it. How lucky.

He continued to let the blood run freely down his face as he stepped out into the hall.

No one was there. He wondered if maybe he should go running and crying to the first person he could find. Then again, they might wave him off if he was walking around and acting fine and energetic as usual, right? Then all of this would have been for nothing. No, maybe he should wait for someone to come to him.

He sank to his knees again in the middle of the hallway, pondering how he should present himself. Just sitting on the floor like this? He would have had to at least make it out of the room okay to be here, so he would have no reason to be on the floor like this. Or maybe...

People can faint after getting a concussion, right? He could do that. Kokichi sprawled out face down on the floor again, letting the blood start to pool from the cut on his head. With this much blood, it might even scare whoever found him into thinking he was dead. He didn't want to scare anyone that badly, especially considering they already had two bodies on their hands, so he'll have to "wake up" before that happens.

God, his head hurt...

Suddenly a door opened into the hall, and Kokichi's breath froze in his lungs. Who was it? He couldn't tell from the footsteps alone. A beat of silence passed where he wondered if they'd even seen him, and for a moment he panicked as he realized he didn't even know how to go about "waking up." If he waited any longer, though, someone might freak out. With no choice but to rip the bandage off, he pushed himself up, defaulting to his tried and true mask.

"It's a lie!" he cried. The sudden shift from flat on the floor to upright made his head spin, and he dizzily processed that it was none other than Saihara and Harukawa before him. He vaguely wondered if maybe he had done some damage as he awkwardly pulled himself to his feet again. "Neeheehee... Did I surprise you? Were you gonna scream and cry in terror?"

"Wh-what are you doing?"

To say Kokichi was taken aback by the reaction would be an understatement. Sure, he'd expected bewilderment, but he'd hoped for something more along the lines of concern. Are you okay? What happened? He was covered in blood, after all.

Saihara's words of choice, however, held less concern and more... frustration? A tired sort of exasperation for Kokichi's antics. Maybe he thought it was just paint?

They were staring at him, waiting for an answer.

"Oh, sorry..." Maybe he should address it? "I'm just a little light-headed from the blood loss. Yeah, this is real blood."

"... Okay, so what are you doing?" The tired repetition of the question sent a pang through Kokichi's chest.

Wow. Tough crowd.

"I got curious about something, so I decided to search the empty room next door. Th-Then, suddenly..." What if he played it up a little? He did have a headache. Maybe it was worse than he thought? It wouldn't be too much harm to lean into that, right? "I-I...stepped through the floorboard."

"You stepped through a floorboard?" Saihara continued to eye him skeptically.

"Geez, that got me good..." A pit began to form in Kokichi's stomach as the two stared him down. He couldn't tell if the nausea building there was from the migraine or the scrutiny. "'Cause of this, I-I tripped and fell pretty hard..."

Please... Please just care. Even just a little bit, please.

"If you're going to lose consciousness, do it after you tell us everything."

"O-Oh..." They really didn't care at all, did they? "Sorry, my bad... I guess... there was no crosspiece supporting this floorboard, so I kinda... stepped through..."

Please all I want is for someone to care if I live or die.

"Ah-haha, what bad luck..."

And then the school bell rang, signaling the end of their investigation time. The moment was over.

He should have expected this result.

Kokichi didn't trust Momota as far as he could throw him. That hadn't changed in forty-seven loops. (Or maybe it had. Sometimes. Maybe?) Kokichi didn't have the time to examine his feelings on the matter. Whatever happened between them ended up getting wiped clean every time he ended up back in the locker. It never happened. This was the first time all over again. Kokichi made a point to forget his attachments each and every time. (Didn't he?) It made things easier. (He didn't, not really.)

No, it was Taro-kun who had gone cozying up to Momota this time, and behind Kokichi's back no less.

That's how he'd found himself dragged along for the ride when Momota bound up to them like an excited puppy one day, exclaiming to Taro-kun that "it" was ready. It? What it? Kokichi looked between the two of them blankly. Taro-kun didn't usually go off scheming with other people. He wasn't about to turn down the invitation to tag along, though.

And so now here he was, crammed into Momota's dorm closet, knees pulled up to his chest and making his already small frame even smaller so his two much taller companions would fit. Tin foil crinkled beneath him, running all up the walls and over the ceiling. Every surface of the closet was covered in it, like a room version of a conspirator's foil hat. Momota shut the door behind them, briefly plunging the three of them into darkness before clicking on a flashlight and joining them on the floor.

"So what's all this, then?" Kokichi finally asked.

"What do you mean?" Momota seemed genuinely surprised at Kokichi's question. "It's a Faraday cage!"

"I... took it upon myself to bring up the cameras you told me about to Momota," Taro-kun explained. "He said this could get us some privacy."

Kokichi's gaze flicked between the two of them. Something unpleasant twisted in his stomach. He had told Taro-kun about the cameras in confidence. Or had he? He didn't remember.

But that's a lie.

"Okay," Kokichi said carefully. Better to stay civil for now. "So then what's the plan from here?"

"Well, no one can listen in on us in here. It's isolated in my room, and the foil keeps signals from getting through."

"So we can talk freely."

"Isn't that foil stuff just whacko TV shit?" Kokichi asked skeptically. Nothing on TV could be taken at face value, he knew that well.

"No, actually!" Momota insisted. "See, the foil makes it more difficult for electromagnetic signals to—"

The conversation dragged on after that. Or maybe it jumped ahead jarringly quickly. Back and forth of cameras and masterminds and things Kokichi already knew, but didn't know. Not really. How could he? He didn't divulge the time loops to Momota this time (or any time), because he'd only know this boy for three days (eighteen days) (one thousand two hundred seventy-three days), after all. Time loops? There were no time loops. That was on a need-to-know basis, and it was the first Kokichi was hearing of it.

"I don't get why we can't just tell everybody about all this." Momota rubbed the back of his head with a disgruntled furrow in his brow. "Communication is gonna be key here, right? We want everyone on the same page."

"Kokki told you already," Taro-kun snapped. "If everyone knows, then the Mastermind will know, and that will just ruin things."

"But you guys trusted me, right?" Wrong. Taro-kun trusted you, for some reason.

Why'd Taro-kun have to drag Momota into this, anyway? He was such a blabbermouth and believed in everyone unconditionally and it frankly made Kokichi nauseous. How could Taro-kun be so sure that Momota wouldn't tell anyone? Akamatsu? Saihara?

A shiver skittered up Kokichi's spine.

He was gonna go insane in this dark, cramped space. He swore he could hear the press in the background. (Press? What press?) He dug the flick blade he started nabbing from the warehouse out of his pocket, mindlessly flipping it open and shut just for something to do.

Fwip, click. Fwip, click. God, he was always so on-edge. Why was that?

"It'd be kind of funny if we had the same thing," Momota laughed, and Kokichi hazily realized he had no idea what he was talking about. He must have dropped part of the conversation along the way. Did he?

Fwip, click. Fwip, click.

No, he remembered exactly what they were talking about, or at least he could guess. He barked a bitter laugh at Momota's naiveté. Taro-kun gave a wary chuckle as he glanced apprehensively at Kokichi.

"No, Momota-kun," he muttered, "I can guarantee we don't."

So he guessed right. Of course he did, because he knew exactly what was going on.

"Oh, yeah? Well let's see!" Bless his heart. Fwip, click.

They didn't have the same thing, suffice to say. They bantered so well, though. Kokichi didn't understand it. Or maybe he did. Taro-kun was just infectious like that, when he finally let loose and felt comfortable around someone. Was he really that comfortable around Momota?

Would Momota steal Taro-kun away from him?

Fwip, click. Fwip, click.

There was a sudden lull in the conversation as Taro-kun and Momota turned to regard him. Did he miss something again?

"Kokki, you okay?" Stupid question. Fwip, click.

"Peachy." Fwip, click. A lie of a lie if only in how vitriolic the lie's lie was.

"Woah, what's your deal all of a sudden, man?"

Fwip, click. Fwip,click. Why was it so hard to think? Something was weird. Kokichi's head was starting to feel like static. He wasn't concussed yet this run (he'd never had a concussion before in his life), so what was it? Kokichi could barely follow the conversation anymore. No, he had an acute awareness of every word either of them said. It was frustrating.

Fwip, click. Fwip, click.

"Momota," Taro-kun prompted suddenly, "do you take medication for your ADHD?"

Kokichi and Momota both looked at him quizzically.

"Yeah? Why?"

"Well, you haven't been since you've been here, right?" Wait.

"Uh, no, I guess I haven't." No.

"Have you felt any different?" No no no no no.

Horror dawned on Momota's face as he realized no, as a matter of fact, he hadn't felt any different.

Drugs. Stimulants. That was it. They were being drugged. Momota already took stimulants to function, so he hadn't noticed. Taro-kun already took stimulants to entertain himself, so the meager dose wasn't enough to affect him much. Kokichi, on the other hand...

How? The food? The air?

Only one person came to Kokichi's mind with a potential expertise in chemical substances like that. Someone with a cabinet full of them hidden away in his yet unrevealed Ultimate Lab. The lab Kokichi knew nothing about, of course.

Kokichi was suddenly very aware of how goopy his thoughts had become since they'd holed up in this dumb closet. The longer they'd been there, the hard it had become to follow along with the conversation. Even now, he could see Taro-kun and Momota bickering, but the words weren't penetrating his consciousness. He was so, so sleepy, which was a marked difference from his usual high-strung thoughts. That made no sense.

Taro-kun had said stimulants, hadn't he?

Suddenly he was being shaken awake again. He looked up blearily at Taro-kun's worried face—that expression never suited him. Momota was just behind him, ripping the closet door open. Why? They weren't done talking yet, were they?

When Kokichi came to again hours later, Taro-kun and Momota would explain how the Mastermind must have seen them hide away in the closet and figured out their Faraday cage strategy. They must have smoked them out, pumping in some kind of cocktail of drugs through the vents. The other two hadn't noticed the change at first, being much larger and needing a heavier dose to feel any effects, but Kokichi? For Kokichi, so small and lithe, it had been almost instant lights-out.

A tiny canary in the coal mine.

When Kokichi stepped into the elevator at the Shrine of Judgement, he tucked his arms behind his head like he always did, cradling his throbbing skull. He'd cleaned up the blood, stopped the active bleeding, and he was fortunate enough that his bangs hid the mark the board had left behind. To anyone else, he looked fine, and only Saihara and Harukawa had seen him on his way out—he vaguely remembered finding himself on the floor when they stumbled across him.

His forehead was pounding as the elevator started its descent. It was a miracle he didn't stumble. Or did he? He looked around. No one was looking at him, so he must not have. His vision kept swimming—that probably wasn't good.

He couldn't exactly ask Monokuma to be excused from the trial, though, could he? That was stupid.

Were they at the bottom yet? This trip was taking longer than Kokichi remembered.

Or maybe not because they were already spilling out onto the trial grounds.

God, Kokichi had no idea what was going on. The lights on the grounds were blinding, bright neons and varying shades of blue from the podiums and the stained glass windows. He resisted the urge to shut his eyes, rub his head, anything to alleviate the pain as he stepped on his podium. Why was there a deceased photo stand on his—

Wait, no, that wasn't his podium, was it?

Or he must have found his way to it at some point because the trial was suddenly starting. Monokuma blathering on the same rules they've heard three times now. Kokichi's mind was spinning, trying to organize his thoughts. The discussion started without him and he struggled to keep up.

If his head throbbed, no it didn't.

If he clung to his podium with a white-knuckle grip as it shifted and spun, no he didn't.

He plastered on a smile and dropped whatever comment made sense to push the discussion forward.

Who's death were they talking about again? Yonaga's? The lock, right. Well, only student council members could get in.

Wait, no that wasn't right, was it?

Everyone was staring at him all of a sudden. The lock. The lock, what was it about the lock?

Oh, fuck, he'd picked that in front of everything, hadn't he? Son of a—

No, maybe he could work with this. There had to be something. He was thinking about something during the investigation, before the whole seance thing happened. There was something wonky about the door. Kokichi couldn't remember what it was. He was in no condition to come up with a witty lie. What was something obviously false that Saihara could sink his teeth into for a second?

People were talking to him. He had to say something.

It was the first lie that popped into his head, and what a goddamn mess of a lie it was.

No it wasn't. He could make it work, he always did.

His podium lurched to the center as he was put under everyone's scrutiny. His vision nearly blacked out for a second as the whole room spun. He was gonna throw up. Come on, hold it. Once Saihara finds whatever it is Kokichi knew had to be there, he could rest his eyes for a bit.

How did he lock the door again? What a dumb question—

The back door. It was the back door, right. He remembered now. Actually, if he'd forgotten, no he hadn't.

It was over before Kokichi could even really comprehend where the discussion was going, but that was fine with him. Of course he wasn't banking on Saihara to do all the work. If that's what he'd been doing, no it wasn't. He'd never admit that was what he was baiting for, he was doing what he always did—boggle everyone's mind with his stupid games. Luring the culprit out with a blatantly stupid lie.

If his stomach was churning from vertigo and delirium, no it wasn't.

If his head was throbbing through the base of his skull, no it wasn't.

They were moving on, they were moving on without him again. What were they talking about now?

He just wanted this trial to be over. Would it kill them all to just be a little quieter? Just... just a little quieter. Turn off the lights. Iruma shut up, just shut the fuck up it doesn't matter who locked the back door, they had to get in first. And now Yumeno was yelling, lovely.

He couldn't let them know. It'd paint a target on his back.

He was fine. Everything was normal.

Focus on Yumeno instead. She's been putting herself through the wringer this go-round.

Take the spotlight off yourself.

And it worked. So they're talking about Chabashira now. Kokichi nodded along, making some kind of remark here and there just to appear engaged. Some dumb idea that it had been Yonaga's ghost. Suicide? No, that was dumb. Let's act like it's not though because Yumeno's being weird again.

Pure...? Him...?

Pure...

Him? Pure...?

Next question. The floorboard was used as a see-saw. Kokichi knew that painfully, painfully well.

Next question. Ugh, they're accusing Yumeno again? She's not even arguing this time!?

It's been hours at this point. When will it be over? He was going to black out again at this rate. No he wasn't. It was so, so bright. He took the opportunity in a lull to rest his eyes, ease the splitting ache behind them, just for a moment...

He nearly collapsed over the railing of the podium when he zonked out, and the vertigo over falling nearly made him puke.

Saihara was talking to him. What? The floorboards again?

Oh.

Kokichi tried not to go into too much detail. It's not like the severity of his injury was relevant to the case.

No one batted an eye. If his heart clenched a little at the simple dismissal, no it didn't.

Next question. Who got to the floorboards? If the pain from Kiibo flashing his stupid high beams for the gajillionth time that trial nearly made Kokichi break down in tears, no it didn't. Saihara and Shinguuji were arguing. Everything was spinning, everything was so big, he just wanted to go to bed and cry and sleep forever, and finally he could. Finally, it was over.

What a pitiful lie for him to tell himself, with the double-murder rule looming over him.

God, and they hadn't even gotten to the debate scrum yet. The podiums lifting into the air and spinning around like they did, as if he wasn't nauseous and disoriented enough already.

Kokichi was dreading the debate scrum.

Maybe, though, if everyone stayed on the same page, they wouldn't have to have one at all. That's all he could hope for. He resisted the urge to cradle his throbbing head as the topic shifted back to Yonaga's murder...

Wait.

Why were so many people insisting that they vote now?

"Ouma-kun..."

Amami approached him suddenly as he was curled up on the couch with a book and a stuffed dog. There was an urgency in his voice, and concern in his expression. Kokichi blinked up at him in confusion. Was something the matter? He was just about to voice this question when Amami reached down without a word to tug down his loose checkered scarf.

The scarf that was supposed to be hiding the bandages that ran halfway up his neck.

"I thought I saw something poking out," Amami huffed, pulling away as Kokichi hastily yanked the fabric back up again. "What is that? When did you get hurt?"

"It's nothing, really." Kokichi fiddled with the hem of his scarf, worrying the already fraying edges. "It's old."

He hadn't been living here very long. Barely a week, and Kokichi had been so careful to not let Amami see him uncovered. Be it his scarf and hoodie, or his gakuran, or whatever, he made sure his arms, legs, and neck were properly hidden. He must have gotten careless, and the scarf had slouched just enough for him to catch a glimpse.

"Old?" Amami crossed his arms incredulously. "From what? Something old wouldn't need dressing that heavy, would it?"

The wound on the juncture between Kokichi's neck and his shoulder throbbed, as if to prove Amami's point.

The room was dark. It always was, save the light of the TV casting distorted shadows across the room. At least he'd had the decency to mute it this time. It was much easier for Kokichi to ignore that way.

Not that he'd ever admit that he was ignoring it. That would probably just upset him.

Kokichi couldn't deny the sick thrill he himself got when the knives came out. It wasn't exactly arousal, no. He couldn't quite place what it was. Some visceral feeling that tightened around his lungs and made him want to throw up, but somehow still managed to be satisfying in how real it was.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known going in what Saihara had wanted to try today. He said he wanted to hear Kokichi's noises, and that would be fine. He stretched out on the bed, all hooded gazes masking the twisting of disdain and dread in his gut in the face of the look of manic obsession that was mirrored back at him.

Kokichi had never felt anything so real in his life. He loved it. He hated it. He didn't really know what to feel about it.

He'd told Saihara that he wanted this, but truth be told he really wasn't sure if he did. He wanted to not want it. That was a big part of it. He didn't want it, but he did it anyway, and that was the price he paid.

The price to feel the whatever it was that made him fall apart into a mess of terrified tears and mangled cries as some creep had his way with him.

And then, when it was all over, Kokichi was still breathing, so that meant it was fine, right?

"We should have a doctor check it over if it still needs to be bandaged up like even now." Amami's words and the phone already in his hand snapped Kokichi back to the present like a rubber band.

"N-no! No doctors!" He sprung to his feet in a panic. The bandages pulled at the cuts and the bites, but Kokichi had gotten good at moving like the scabs weren't ripping open under the wrappings. Doctors meant explaining himself, meant calling his parents, meant this waking dream of living with beautiful Amami in his beautiful apartment coming to an end and finally facing the consequences for all of his actions. "See, I'm fine! Really. If you only just noticed, that means it must not be that bad, right?"

Amami didn't look convinced.

"If it really hurt that much," Kokichi insisted, "or was infected or anything like that, I would have said something, wouldn't I?"

"How do I know you would, Ouma-kun?" Amami pressed. "You've hid them from me for this long. Why didn't you tell me from the start?"

"I..." Kokichi fiddled with his scarf again, his gaze turning shamefully to the floor. He stooped down to pick up the stuffed dog from where it'd fallen on the floor, then looked back up at Amami with the most pitiful expression he could manage. "I just didn't want to worry you... I was... I was scared that you..."

His stomach twisted in knots. Scared that he what? Would find the scars shameful? Would find Kokichi shameful if he explained what had happened? What would Amami think if he knew?

He didn't want Amami not to love him anymore.

"Please, Ranr—" He averted his gaze. "Ran-chan..."

Amami blinked in surprise, and then his expression softened. He sighed, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "Will you at least let me see them? I can help you take care of them if nothing else."

"It's okay. I don't want to trouble you more than I already have."

Amami didn't seem entirely pleased with the answer, but let it be after that, excusing himself to go start making dinner for the two of them. Kokichi slumped back onto the couch with a relieved sigh, pulling his scarf more securely around his neck. It was sweet that Amami seemed to care so much, it really was.

But this was his mistake. He could handle it. He was handling it. It would be fine. Sure, the wounds didn't seem to want to stay closed, and Kokichi had read horror stories about human bites online, but he was keeping them clean.

His neck throbbed again.

Honest.

It was nearly 9 pm by the time Kokichi stumbled through the door to his apartment. What a grueling day—nonstop meetings, public appearances, a late night at the office going through proposals, the usual. He didn't bother turning on the light as he kicked off his shoes and shuffled his way to the kitchen, pulling off his stuffy tie and tossing it in the vague direction of the couch. Politics were such a headache. If Kokichi had the choice, he would have been content to stick with his one nonprofit, and yet the government had gotten in the way of his vision time and time again.

At least things might go a little more smoothly if he managed to get his hands on that seat on the Diet. That would make it all worth it.

The light of the refrigerator blared in Kokichi's face as he sought out something to eat. He stared at the typical assortment of quick and prepackaged options he kept stocked. Nothing particularly thrilling. He was too tired to wait for delivery, too. He sighed, settling on some leftover rice and a pack of natto. Better than nothing, just something to put in his stomach.

Waiting on the rice in the microwave, he fumbled with the natto package more than one might expect. The styrofoam lid didn't seem to want to come off, so he picked at it a little harder and—

The whole container split open, spilling the contents in a sticky wad onto the floor.

Kokichi stared at the mess, his mind almost drawing a blank. What was he doing again?

The microwave beeped. Kokichi blinked.

Ah, right. It was dark. Dinner.

Well, he supposed just rice was fine. Clearly he couldn't be trusted opening packages right now. Kokichi scooped up the mess with a paper towel, dumping it in the trash before retrieving the rice. He collapsed into the stool at the counter, he tried to bring himself of levity by swinging his feet, but stopped just as quickly. He wasn't really in the mood. The silence in his barely-lit apartment was swallowing him. He didn't feel like turning on a show or game like he usually did. The chopsticks felt awkward in his hand. Everything was too big. Frustrating as it was, he stubbornly refused to opt for a spoon.

What was he, a child?

He needed to stop entertaining this.

He had responsibilities.

Work to do.

Changes to make.

He was the Ultimate Supreme Leader, wasn't he?

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He dug it out, finding a text from one of his nonprofit subordinates—his friends—checking in that he got home safely. Did he forget to message her like usual? That was happening more often, wasn't it?

He was probably just tired from the election.

He sent a quick text back, something casual and cheery. It was so easy, almost automatic, like he'd just hit pause on whatever soul-sucking nonsense was going on in his chest. It was surreal how easy it was to forget it was even there when other people came up. And then the screen went dark again, and with it came all the bigness of the world, bearing back down like it was just waiting for him to be alone again.

Kokichi stared at the phone in his hand, and in the quiet, his old classmates came to mind. Ultimate Talent was such a heavy pressure, it was hard to really explain to anyone who wasn't Talented. Some part of him considered opening up his contacts. A part of him he didn't really understand. Everyone was busy with their own Talents.

Who knew where in the world Amami was, or if it was a good time to talk.

Saihara was probably exhausted himself with all the cases he was swamped with.

Momota was on the ISS, for god's sake.

Besides, what could they do that wouldn't just hit that pause button all over again? He could chat them up, catch up, have a little fun with that effortless, reflexive mask just like he did with anyone else. It felt good in the moment, but after? Nothing ever changed, did it? What was he supposed to do? Talk about his problems?

Kokichi wasn't sure he could. Whenever he talked to anyone, it was like they just disappeared from his mind. He couldn't fathom being bothered, and it made appearing as put-together as he was easy. It made it so, so easy. He didn't know how to stop. And then, when it was over, it all came right back, and suddenly whatever happy interaction he had just had disappeared from his mind instead. He couldn't fathom not being bothered.

The world was so big when he was alone.

Why? Things were going well. Why did he have to feel this way?

He abandoned his chopsticks, the rice cooled enough to scoop into his hands. Clumsily, he fashioned it into an obnoxiously large onigiri. He vaguely remembered showing the younger kids how to do this when they got frustrated with their own chopsticks. Leftover rice wasn't the best medium for it, though, the grains having lost their stick in the fridge. When he tried to eat it, it just fell apart into a crumbly mess.

But wasn't that just how the world felt right now?

The rest of dinner was a mess, but at this point, who cared? He'll just clean it up tomorrow, when he was feeling more himself again. He wanted his scarf. He wanted to go to bed. He just left the bowl and crumbs on the counter where they were for tomorrow him. For responsible him.

If the world was gonna feel this big, then he could stand to be a little irresponsible in the comfort of his own home, right?

He still had to take care of himself, but that was fine. He was a big boy.

He didn't fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

He didn't forget half the steps to his bath.

He didn't get tangled up in his pajamas.

He didn't accidentally squirt a gob of toothpaste onto the counter.

He didn't curl up under the blanket, the top of his head barely poking out, clinging to his checkered scarf like a security blanket and chewing on the pad of his thumb.

He was a big boy. He would have to be again tomorrow, whether he liked it or not.

And he would be.

This first time it happened really was unplanned. He swore it to himself up and down.

Kokichi had stared in disbelief at the blood spattered across the bookcase, pooling on the floor beneath a head of green hair. They'd eaten lunch together. He'd chased Kokichi around his room after he'd swiped the notepad from his back pocket during their final planning session. Kokichi still had that notepad squirreled away in his bathroom.

That was before Kokichi knew what he knew now.

Or maybe it wasn't.

He'd changed the outcome the second time. (Or was it the third?) Every time, Kokichi changed it. Kept his Taro-kun safe. Every time, he'd cling to Taro-kun, feel the weight of his body, the rise and fall of his chest as the seconds counted down to Nighttime the same as they always had.

Kokichi woke up the next morning in a cold bed. Had he made it to bed this time? That was rare. (It wasn't that rare, was it?) He still wasn't used to the routine of the morning announcements. He staggered groggily to the mirror to fix up his clothes and make himself presentable. Out of the corner of his eye, two portraits had been moved to the corner of the whiteboard.

Out the door, it was a quick jaunt down the stairs until he halted in front of his door. He was taking his sweet time, wasn't he? That was fine. Kokichi could wait.

He waited.

And waited and waited and waited.

He checked a nonexistent watch on his wrist. Tapped his shoe impatiently. Somewhere in the background, the morning announcement played.

He kept waiting. What was he waiting for again? 

"Ouma-kun?"

"Hm?" Maybe Kokichi should pick the lock open and wake him himself.

"Ouma-kun, what are you waiting for?" Kokichi started, turning to gaze at Saihara over his shoulder. He smiled awkwardly, sympathy in his gaze—his shielded gaze—nodding towards Amami's door. "He's... He's not going to come out, you know."

Ah.

Saihara had ditched his emo hat.

"Oh, I know!" Kokichi threw his arms behind his head with an easy grin. "I was just testing you, silly!"

That's right.

"Right... Are you coming to breakfast?"

Blood spattered on the bookcase.

"Yeah, I'll be there in a minute."

Pooling on the floor.

"If you say so."

Warm hands turned cold.

"Yeah, yeah."

A chest that will never rise and fall again.

But that's a lie. He'd be back soon enough. Kokichi just had to keep telling himself that. It was only temporary.

Temporary.

"Just don't go breaking in, okay? I don't think he'd want that."

Bold of him to assume he knew what Taro-kun would want. As if he hadn't been the one to spend every night in Kokichi's room, pouring over notes and plans and god knows what.

He really was thinking about telling him this time. Honest.

"I won't! But that could be a lie!"

But Kokichi needed a solo run, just to scope some things out. A prospective month or so to weed out discrepancies in how the dominoes fell. He knew this.

It was only temporary, he knew this.

How many times would it have to be temporary, though? How many times would Kokichi have to see that blood staining pretty green hair? How many nights would he wake up on the floor just to avoid his cold bed? He needed to figure this out. This time he would figure this out.

But this was the first time he'd ever done this, right? Taro-kun was gone. He wouldn't be coming back.

That was a cruel lie, but it lessened the itch for the press.

Just a bit. Just enough to see things through.

Don't have to wait if there's nothing to wait for.

Kokichi put the though of Taro-kun's warm hands out of his mind. He'd only known him for four days. He'd never met him before in his life. It was only four days. That's what Kokichi always told himself.

"Hey..."

He stiffened. Hadn't Saihara gone on ahead? That's usually what happened, wasn't it? Had Kokichi done something to change that this time? He must have. It was difficult to keep track of everything. (It wasn't. He kept track of everything perfectly. Remembered everything just so.) There wasn't much to keep track of, though, since there wasn't a "usually" to happen.

Saihara was staring at him. He should say something.

"Yeah?"

"It..." Saihara's gaze was even. Concerned? Skeptical? Knowing?

"It's not your fault. Okay?"

Kokichi bristled.

Without another word, Saihara continued on out the door, leaving Kokichi alone in front of Amami's door. There was no basis at all. Nothing in his tone, or the words themselves, but it itched at the back of Kokichi's mind like the lingering tinges of the poison in his system.

The truth. Kokichi was the only one who knew what would happen. Who hadn't said a word as Taro-kun had gone off to meet with Momota that night. Who'd seen him off with a smile.

There was no clinging. No warm weight around him. No rise and fall of a chest pressed against his. No soft green hair tickling his cheek.

Not this time, and it was like Saihara with his words had ripped the bandaid off the gaping wound Kokichi was pretending desperately wasn't there.

It's your fault. And now you get to starve.