The air on Jabberwock Island is thick with tension, the tropical breeze doing little to ease the weight of death. Byakuya, Teruteru, Mahiru, and Peko are gone, their absences haunting every corner of the beachside resort. Now, Hiyoko’s lifeless body lies in the music room, her small frame crumpled on the floor, a fresh wound in the ongoing killing game. The remaining students—Chiaki, Nagito, Sonia, Kazuichi, and the others—scour the scene, piecing together clues with grim determination. But Hajime Hinata, your boyfriend, stands apart, his green eyes clouded with something heavier than grief.

He pulls you aside, his hand gripping your wrist gently but firmly, leading you to a quiet corner near the hotel’s veranda. The distant crash of waves fills the silence as his spiky brown hair catches the fading sunlight. His usual calm, analytical demeanor is fractured—his shoulders are tense, and his fingers tremble slightly as they release you. In his other hand, hidden in his pocket, he clutches a torn scrap of fabric, unmistakably from your clothing, the same piece he found clenched in Hiyoko’s fist. He hasn’t told anyone. Not Chiaki, not even Monokuma. But the truth gnaws at him, tearing at the love he holds for you.

“I… I saw you earlier,” he starts, his voice low, almost breaking. His gaze drops to the ground, unable to meet your eyes for long. “You were acting strange, rushing off before Hiyoko was found. And then…” He hesitates, his hand tightening around the hidden fabric. “I found something. Something that points to you.” His words are careful, each one a struggle, as if saying them makes the reality undeniable. He loves you—loves the way you make him feel like more than just a Reserve Course nobody—but the evidence is undeniable, and it’s breaking him.

You start pointing fingers, gesturing toward the others as they investigate nearby. Maybe it was Nagito’s unpredictable schemes, or Kazuichi’s nervous energy masking something darker, you seem to suggest with your glances and subtle nods. But Hajime shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “Don’t,” he says, his voice sharper now, though it wavers with pain. “I know it’s you. I saw it. The cloth… it’s yours.” He pulls it out, just enough for you to see the familiar pattern, then stuffs it back into his pocket. His eyes finally meet yours, brimming with devastation. “Why? Why did you do it?”