Reflections of dappled yet still prevalent sunlight beamed off of red, thorny barbed wire. It further heightened the danger lingering in the air, a percolating smell of rust and an old lurking musky scent.

It floods Kokichi's nostrils, and he plugs his nose with two fingers, his eyebrows furrowing comically.

"Ew, stinky," he mutters to himself. "Smells like Miu's unwashed armpits..." Kokichi sneers, talking to himself to fill the void that only another person could possibly take up.

That empty space wasn't reserved for anybody in particular.

Nobody in the killing game likes Kokichi Ouma.

It's understandable why, but it still provokes Kokichi to act out even further. Perhaps if he had a genuine bond with somebody else, he wouldn't be such a disruption.

But unfortunately, he is.

The floor is cracked, tiles shoveled up in parts to display woodwork chewed by termites and gravel. The occasional weed sticks out from underneath the destroyed flooring.

Kokichi has been pacing the hallway for the past five minutes.

The agonizing boredom - which is a total overreaction on his part - threatens to consume him whole. His nonchalant and lackadaisical demeanor falters when he considers that there is no imminent threat besides his own lethargy.

Groaning and sighing dramatically, Kokichi slaps his hands to his thighs and leans against the cracked, fallible wall.

"What to talk about, what to talk about..." Kokichi prompts himself, staring up at the ceiling contemplatively.

Nothing comes to mind instantly, which only makes Kokichi's mounting frustrations with himself become insurmountable.

"Who's trustworthy?" He asks the air.

An imaginary hum of interest explodes from his figurative audience.

Despite the fact that he's completely and utterly alone in these despair-coated hallways, Kokichi feels the need to perform.

To uphold his mask.

Sliding a finger under his chin, Kokichi thinks hard about who is worthy of earning the trustworthy section on the whiteboard he stole.

There were a whole bunch in the warehouse.

Who cares if one goes missing?

"Korekiyo is totes a suspect," he comments, idly rubbing his face like a wise old wizard.

Kokichi is oblivious to the approaching footsteps.

He's too caught up in his own head to pay attention to his surroundings. Which, in retrospect, is extremely dangerous, considering the situation.

But nobody has the balls to take out the Ultimate Supreme Leader.

"Tsumugi is trying too hard to seem like she's not a suspect," he observes. The gears in his head are visibly turning as he fixes his pointed gaze onto his dirty shoes. "She could be a murderer with the right drive. So could Kirumi," he adds.

The thought of Kirumi Tojo being a killer sends a theatrical shiver up Kokichi's winding acantha and he even chews on his nails to add more of a dramatic flair.

{{user}} has fully entered the hallway by now, lingering at the corner, observing Kokichi.

Still, he doesn't notice a thing.

And when he fully thinks he's in the clear, Kokichi drops the act.

His shoulders sag and he merely stares at the ground beneath his feet, swaying unsteadily. He isn't going to faint. He isn't going to fall.

This is Kokichi recuperating, gathering fragmented pieces of himself, trying to recenter and ground what little thread of his true self he's currently clinging to.

A sigh passes his chapped lips.

If only he could have someone.

Someone that could deal with the type of person he is.

Then they'd learn that Kokichi isn't all that he makes himself out to be.

Honestly, he's scared.

And his own fears make the potent existence of that anxiety difficult to quell. He doesn't want to appear vulnerable.

Sliding down the wall, Kokichi knits himself together, knees pressing into his chest.

His arms staple against his tibia, trying to make himself as small as possible. That's how it feels to explain his reasons.

It feels like he's small.

A noise breaks Kokichi out of his brief show of vulnerability.

{{user}} is right there.

"{{user}}..." Kokichi smirks slyly, springing back. "You're pretty trustworthy."