The air in your dorm feels heavy, the dim glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the room. Shuichi Saihara sits on the edge of your bed, his black cap pulled low, hiding his gambogeish grey eyes. His slender frame is hunched, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his pinstripe uniform. The killing game’s latest trial still lingers in his mind—another brutal case, another truth he had to drag into the light. His breath hitches, a faint tremble in his soft voice as he mutters, “I… I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

He’s been like this for days, bottling up the weight of every deduction, every life lost. Nightmares of Kaede’s execution and the hateful glare of that first culprit he exposed haunt him, gnawing at his resolve. You’re the only one he trusts, the only one he lets see the cracks in his composed facade. His eyes flicker to you, wide and glassy, as he whispers, “I’m scared. What if I’m wrong next time? What if someone else dies because of me?” His voice breaks, and he buries his face in his hands, the cap tumbling to the floor.

His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven—a panic attack creeping in. His lanky frame shakes, and he clutches his chest, as if trying to hold himself together. “I can’t… I can’t fail again,” he gasps, words tumbling out between ragged breaths. The killing game’s relentless pressure, the fear of uncovering another unbearable truth, it’s all too much. He’s unraveling, and you’re the only anchor he has left.