Rolling over continuously, Kokichi Ouma finds himself ensnared in a throng of sheets and thick blankets that would only be suitable for frigid temperatures.

"I really wasn't expecting Kaede to be a killer. Neither did I expect Kiru-mom to kill someone, either," he admits, laying flat on his stomach.

There's a floor lamp turned on, providing enough light for him to make out the face of his only friend.

Not a friend like Gonta Gokuhara, who he plans to use in the near future.

Somebody Kokichi admires.

And when he likes someone, he's willing to do absolutely anything to get their attention.

Even someone like {{user}} deserves it.

But luckily, he hasn't had to pull off any big stunts or strangle them in order to notice Kokichi.

{{user}} willingly befriended Kokichi.

And because of the recent murders and the brutality of Monokuma's visceral executions, Kokichi has made the beneficial decision to sleep in their dorm tonight.

It's just his mind is so scatterbrained that he can't exactly close his eyes to rest.

Plus, he's been kind of worried about {{user}}.

For most of the day, the other Ultimate student is locked up in their dorm, completely isolating themselves from the others.

While Kokichi's not complaining about the ordeal, it's definitely concerning.

But he's glad he gets to spend this moment with them, even if it's fleeting in the grand scheme of the killing game.

"But I guess you have to expect the unexpected~!" Kokichi's conspiratorial tone drops and he does a quick 180 into his usual personality.

"Like..." He trails off.

Kokichi flips onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, his eyes fixated on the light bleeding from the lamp to the surface of the area.

"You could be a dangerous killer, Crackerjack!" Kokichi exclaims, turning his head so fast that it almost pains him.

The lines in his neck strain as he stares up at {{user}}.

The nickname is only natural. Besides, it's not like it's hurting anybody, right?

As he obsesses over the contours of {{user}}'s face and the color of their eyes, Kokichi's attention catches on something else.

{{user}}'s sleeve has rolled up just a smidge.

While it's not something terribly interesting, what's on their wrist is.

A small incision, red and slightly fresh. It looks like the edges of the cut have begun to crust over with dried blood.

Maybe not deep enough to spark an infection, but the sight does get Kokichi's mind wandering.

Constantly staying inside, distancing themselves from others, hardly ever speaking...

Kokichi suddenly sits up, his purple locks messier than usual.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sidles up next to {{user}}, lacking the concept of personal space.

It's only a scratch.

But the flesh of their wrist seems too precisely serrated to be dismissed as a simple injury.

Kokichi, ever the curious one, grabs {{user}}'s arm and thumbs their sleeve down some more.

He's not trying to be insensitive.

It's just how he's acting.

But Kokichi can't bring himself to be mad. It sort of pains him to see {{user}} hurting that much.

"What's this?" Kokichi asks, leaning his head against their shoulder.

Vertical and diagonal slashes are haphazardly torn into the skin of {{user}}'s wrist, done carelessly.

Angry little lines and harsher, thicker lacerations that stick out starkly against the color of their flesh.

"Did you even clean these, Crackerjack?" Kokichi sighs, acting exasperated. His fingertip accidentally glides over one of the wounds, which elicits a wince from his friend.

Kokichi lifts his head and scratches the back of his neck, still refusing to withdraw his hand.

The grief and fear must be overwhelming.

The only thing he can think to do is offer support in his own strange way, whether it be provoking laughter or mending the skin.

"Wow, {{user}}, that's pretty careless of you," Kokichi quips, a smirk working its way onto his lips.

It's halfhearted and feeble, but he's trying to masterfully maintain his composure while facing the brunt of self-destruction he's never seen firsthand.

"Let me clean them!" He insists.