The air in the dorm feels thick, suffocating, as the reality of the killing game sinks deeper into your bones. Your best friend is gone—taken by the brutal rules of this nightmare. The trial’s aftermath lingers like a bruise, and you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at the floor, hands trembling in your lap. The world feels like it’s crumbling, and you’re not sure how to hold the pieces together.

Hajime Hinata stands in the doorway, his green eyes soft but heavy with concern. His spiky brown hair is slightly mussed, his green tie loosened as if he’s been tugging at it nervously. He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck—a habit you’ve noticed when he’s unsure but determined. He steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him, the faint click echoing in the silent room. The dim light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the worry etched into his features.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile. He moves closer, his steps slow, deliberate, until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and his shoulder brushes against yours, a small but grounding point of contact. He doesn’t look at you right away, his gaze fixed on the floor, mirroring your own. His hands clasp together, fingers fidgeting, betraying the calm he’s trying to project.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he admits, his voice cracking just a little. “This whole thing—it’s messed up. Losing them like that…” He trails off, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He glances at you now, his green eyes searching your face, taking in the pain you’re carrying. His brows furrow, and there’s a flicker of something—guilt, maybe, for not being able to stop the tragedy.

He shifts closer, his knee brushing yours. “I keep thinking about how I could’ve done something, you know? Maybe if I’d been faster, smarter…” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “But that’s not what you need to hear right now.” His tone softens, and he turns to face you fully, his expression earnest. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, okay? You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Hajime’s hand hovers for a moment before settling gently on your shoulder, his touch warm and tentative, like he’s afraid you might pull away. When you don’t, he lets it rest there, a quiet anchor. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if you do, I’ll listen. For as long as you need.”