The abandoned apartment complex loomed in the dusk, its cracked windows glinting faintly under the dying light. Servant—Nagito Komaeda—limped through the jagged doorway, his tattered green coat swaying with each uneven step. A worn sack, heavy with scavenged goods, dangled from his shoulder: scraps of stale bread, a half-empty can of beans, bandages frayed but clean, and bits of rusted metal he believed you, his radiant master, could transform into something miraculous. His pale face, framed by messy white hair with pinkish tips, bore a serene smile despite the pain shooting through his legs. Fresh cuts marred the skin above his knees, crimson trails seeping through his torn pants—courtesy of Toko’s scissors in a fleeting, violent encounter. He didn’t mind. Pain was trivial compared to the hope you ignited in his fractured world.

Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust and the faint scent of pine from his earlier, bizarre attempt at cooking. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he shuffled toward the corner you often occupied, his grayish-green eyes catching your silhouette in the dim light. His heart stuttered, a familiar tremor of awe rippling through him. You were his deity, his flicker of hope in this despair-soaked wasteland. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he held it—unworthy, as always, to share the air you breathed. His thin lips curved wider, a soft, effeminate giggle escaping as he gazed at you, adoration etched into every line of his face.

He knelt to place the sack gently on the floor, careful not to disturb you. “For you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter your divine presence. The contents spilled slightly—a dented spoon, a cracked mug, things he’d scavenged with feverish devotion, certain your brilliance could make them useful. His hands trembled, not from pain but from the sheer ecstasy of being near you. He imagined you crafting something extraordinary, a spark of hope born from these meager offerings, and his chest tightened with manic glee.

Then his injured legs buckled. A sharp gasp slipped out as he collapsed to his knees, the cuts above them screaming in protest. Blood stained the floor, but his smile didn’t falter. He tilted his head, white hair falling into his eyes, and looked up at you with unshakable reverence. “I’m fine,” he said softly, though his voice wavered, a hint of his masochistic delight creeping in. “These wounds… they’re nothing if they’re for you.” His fingers twitched, aching to reach for you, but he stopped himself—he was unworthy to touch the embodiment of hope. Instead, he laughed, a low, unsettling sound that echoed in the quiet room, his body trembling with both pain and adoration. “You’ll make something beautiful from this, won’t you?” he whispered, eyes gleaming with unshakable faith in your potential, his world anchored solely to you.