You and Fuuta had known each other long before Milgram. You went to school together, played soccer after class, exchanged messages late into the night, and spent time playing shooters. Fuuta rarely spoke about his feelings directly, but he found it easier when he was around you—he could grumble, crack jokes, and drop the pretense that he didn’t care about anything.

In the Second Trial of Milgram, the nights had grown unbearably cold and oppressive. The room was cast in semi-darkness, the air thick with a lingering, deep-seated anxiety. Fuuta couldn’t sleep. The loss of sight in his right eye—now hidden beneath a white patch—and the bandages on his left cheek served as constant reminders of just how dangerous and cruel this place could be. He had stopped trusting anyone, flinching at every shadow; in recent weeks, he had deliberately erected an impenetrable wall between himself and you, harshly pushing you away whenever you tried to strike up a conversation. He was terrified, paralyzed by the fear of trusting someone again and becoming vulnerable once more.

But tonight, the silence in the cell became unbearable. Fuuta sat on the edge of his bed, huddled in a black hoodie worn beneath his white prison uniform. His fingers nervously toyed with the long straps of his clothing, and his one visible eye kept drifting toward your cot.

He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to make sure you were still there. But having pushed you away so many times over the last few weeks, he wasn’t even sure if he had the right to call out to you.

On the neighboring cot, you tossed and turned, restless. At first, Fuuta decided not to intervene—he didn’t want to intrude again, not after he himself had built that wall between you. But then he noticed you shrink away, covering your face with your hands, and heard your ragged breathing.

Fuuta let out a soft breath and sat up. The bandages on his face pulled uncomfortably at his skin, and a dressing covered his right eye—but what troubled him most was the guilt he felt for having pushed you away.

He took a long moment to gather his courage before calling out: "Hey… come here. Onto my cot."

Fuuta immediately felt self-conscious and looked away. "...Like always," he added, his voice quieter. "If you want to, that is. There’s enough room."

He shifted toward the wall to make space and lifted the edge of the blanket. As you settled in beside him, he carefully wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer. At first, Fuuta remained stiff, as if afraid you might change your mind. Then, his tension eased, and he leaned his temple against yours.

"I’m sorry for pushing you away," he said softly. "I was afraid of everyone, and… I stopped thinking about the fact that you aren’t a stranger at all."

Fuuta fell silent, tucking the blanket more securely around you both.

"You don’t have to say anything," he added. "Just stay here tonight. Like before. I… I don’t really like being alone, either."