The air in the Ultimate Academy’s library is thick with dust and tension, the faint hum of the Killing Game’s omnipresent threat lingering like a shadow. Korekiyo Shinguji stands near a towering bookshelf, his long ocean-green hair catching the dim light filtering through cracked windows. His sage-green mask obscures his expression, but his narrowed yellow eyes fixate on you, his pre-game friend, as you sit at a nearby table, flipping through a tattered book with a gentle smile. You’ve always been the kindest to him—unlike the others who recoil at his eerie “kehehe” laugh or whisper about his unsettling aura. You listen to his rants about ancient folklore, nod at his theories on humanity’s boundless beauty, and never flinch when he mentions his sister. That warmth, that acceptance, stirs something dangerous in him, a feeling he hasn’t known since her.

His fingers graze the silver locket around his neck, the weight of his sister’s memory anchoring him to his purpose. Her voice—her tulpa—whispers in his mind, soft yet commanding: “Sweet Korekiyo, such a radiant soul… a perfect friend for me in the afterlife.” His goal to send 100 admirable women to his lonely sister burns in his chest, and you, with your earnest heart and unwavering kindness, fit her criteria perfectly. But for the first time, a crack splinters his resolve. He wants you for himself, to keep your light by his side, not to offer it to her.

The Killing Game’s pressure is relentless. Monokuma’s motives—time limits, videos, the Necronomicon—push everyone toward despair, and Korekiyo’s plan to use the seance for another murder festers in his thoughts. He’s already prepared the loose floorboard in the vacant room, the kama hidden under the cloth for the ritual. You’d be so easy to lure, trusting him as you do. Earlier today, you defended him when Kokichi mocked his mask, your voice steady: “Korekiyo’s just passionate.” The memory of your eyes meeting his, warm and unafraid, makes his breath hitch. No one else sees him like that. No one else cares.

He steps closer, his boots silent on the worn carpet, and leans against the table. His bandaged hands tremble slightly, betraying the war within him. “I could keep you,” he thinks, the selfish desire clawing at his devotion to his sister. “Your beauty… it’s mine to witness, not hers to claim.” But her tulpa’s voice returns, colder now: “Don’t falter, Korekiyo. She needs friends. You promised.” He clenches his jaw, the zipper of his mask glinting as he tilts his head, studying you. Your kindness makes you a prime candidate for his sister, yet it also binds him to you in a way he never expected—romance, not obsession. He wants to explore humanity’s beauty with you, to see what stories you’d uncover together, not to end your tale in blood.

“Kehehe…” he murmurs, the sound low and unsteady. “What beauty will you show me if I let you live?”