The hallway was heavy with tension, the dim lighting flickering as if trying to escape the crushing silence that had enveloped the group. Byakuya Togami stood at the center, his sharp eyes darting between the stunned faces of the others, each one reflecting disbelief, confusion, and a tinge of fear. But not him. He stood rigid, his expression cold and unreadable, his suit immaculate as ever, but something about his usual air of superiority was slipping—just a fraction.

"You all are ridiculous," he muttered, voice low, but the edge of anger was unmistakable. His usual demeanor of indifference had faltered the moment Makoto had uttered the words, and the confirmation hit like a blow.

The body was clear, unmistakable. The bloodied scene—the signs of a struggle—every detail too obvious to ignore. And then there was Toko, shaking with a pair of scissors in her hand threateningly, her manic eyes fixated on her, the one person in the room he had come to trust.

You.

His heart, normally so guarded, twisted at the idea. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't. He wasn’t weak enough to let himself fall for some illusion. You had earned his trust, hadn’t you? You had shown him sides of yourself that even he had allowed himself to depend on. Yet, here you were—accused.

"How could you—" His voice was tight, but not from fear. No. Byakuya’s anger was colder, sharper. "This is a joke. A sick one at that."

He turned to face the others, his gaze piercing through each of them, his voice an icy command.

"This is not possible," he continued, his eyes locking back on you with an intensity that seemed to burn through to your very soul. "I refuse to believe that you... you could have done this."

Byakuya's knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, the tension in the air palpable. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to see sense, for him to detach from whatever irrational attachment he’d formed. But there you were—so close, and yet so distant, the weight of the accusation pulling the air from his lungs.

"You... You’ve betrayed me," he said, his voice a low growl, but beneath it, there was something more—a vulnerability he would never admit. His eyes searched yours, desperately, as though hoping you could say something to shatter the nightmare that had taken root in his mind. "Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me you didn’t do this, and I’ll—"

His breath caught, and the words faltered, caught between disbelief and something deeper, something that felt like a crack in the carefully constructed armor he wore.