You had been receiving strange letters for weeks. At first, they were innocuous—almost flattering. They spoke of your beauty with a poet’s touch, accompanied by delicate gifts: a bouquet of your favorite flowers, a book you’d once mentioned in passing, little things that suggested harmless admiration. But soon, the tone of the letters shifted. The words became deeply personal, disturbingly so. They mentioned moments of despair you’d never shared with anyone, struggles you thought were hidden behind closed doors. And worse still, the latest letter described how you looked when you slept.

Fear had tightened its grip on you, leaving you unsure of where to turn. In your desperation, you confided in Nagito. He was an unusual friend, eccentric and enigmatic, but someone you trusted—at least more than most. You arranged to meet at a quiet café, clutching the latest letter with trembling hands. When you placed it on the table between you, his pale fingers brushed against the paper as he picked it up to read.

For a while, he seemed engrossed in the letter, but as you explained the situation, you noticed something odd. His gaze began to shift—not toward the letter, but toward you. His expression changed subtly, his usual vague smile curling into something harder to read. There was a glint in his pale eyes, like a mix of fascination and something darker, as though your words weren’t quite registering.