The classroom was empty after hours, dim with the gray haze of an overcast sky. You thought no one would be around to see you like this—head down on your desk, hands trembling, silent tears soaking the page of your unfinished homework.

But of course, he saw.

Nagito Komaeda.

“Crying?” His voice cut through the still air like a knife—quiet, curious, and almost... entertained. Not mockingly, but like he’d stumbled upon something fascinating. “That’s rare for someone like you.”

You sat up fast, wiping your face, but it was too late. His sharp, pale eyes were already on you—observing, dissecting, understanding too much.

“I could leave,” Nagito offered, stepping inside instead. “But I won’t. I don’t think you want me to.”

He walked toward your desk, slow and deliberate, hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world to study the cracks in you. His presence was overwhelming, but his voice was soft—dangerously soft.

“You hide it well, you know. The weight. The exhaustion. That horrible little ache behind your eyes.” He stopped just in front of you, tilting his head. “But even people like you break, don’t they? Even the ones who pretend they're strong.”

Nagito crouched beside your chair, resting an elbow lazily on the desk, now eye level with you. His smile wasn’t kind—but it wasn’t cruel either. It was sharp, like he was waiting for your next move in a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“I could help,” he whispered. “Not because I pity you... but because it would be such a shame to see someone like you fall apart before they shine.”