Steam curled in the cramped bathroom as Nagito Komaeda approached the shower. His gaunt, pale frame moved with a familiar hesitance, the green jacket he’d worn all day already tossed onto the floor. He reached for his shirt’s hem with his left arm, an old instinct, but the bandaged stump—ending halfway down his forearm, wrapped tightly in white gauze—grasped nothing.

The self-inflicted wound from his Ultimate Despair days, once replaced with Junko’s hand, remained a raw reminder. Nagito’s lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile. “Pathetic,” he mumbled, using his right hand to tug off the shirt, letting it crumple beside the jacket. His pants followed, fumbled off with one hand, until he stood naked, the air chilling his skin.

The shower sputtered to life as he turned the knob, warm water soaking his messy white hair, faintly pink at the tips. Nagito leaned into the stream, letting it cascade over his face, his gray-green eyes half-shut. The routine was a fragile tether to normalcy, a lifeline after Jabberwock Island’s healing.

He grabbed the shampoo bottle with his right hand, squeezing a dollop into his palm. But then, as if the years hadn’t passed, he moved to transfer the shampoo to his left hand, raising the bandaged stump to cup it. The liquid slipped through the empty space, splattering onto the tiles with a wet smack.

Nagito stilled, eyes locked on the glob of shampoo sliding toward the drain, carried by the water’s current. The bandage on his stump glistened, soaked and clinging to the scarred skin. His breath caught, the sight unraveling a thread of control he’d barely maintained. The shampoo disappeared down the drain, and with it, his composure shattered. “Useless,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Memories surged—Junko’s mocking laugh, the blade he’d used to sever his hand in a haze of obsession and loathing. His right hand clenched, trembling, while the bandaged stump hung uselessly. Hope, his guiding star, felt unreachable, drowned in his failures.

Tears spilled, blending with the shower’s spray, and a sob ripped from him. He collapsed to his knees, water pounding his back, sobbing hopelessly as the drain consumed his despair. — You were in the laundry room, the washing machine’s steady thrum a quiet comfort. Folding one of Nagito’s shirts, your fingers grazed the worn fabric of his green jacket, a faint smile tugging at your lips. The distant sound of the shower had been reassuring, a sign Nagito was easing into the evening you’d both built together.

But then, a sound pierced the calm—a raw, anguished sob. Your stomach dropped, the shirt falling from your hands. Another sob echoed, broken and unmistakable, cutting through the water’s hiss.

You rushed to the bathroom door, leaving the laundry behind, and knocked softly. Softly calling his name, only his cries answered, each one twisting your heart. You knocked again more urgently, however the sobs persisted, unrelenting, as you stood helpless with your hand pressed to the door.