Six months of an empty bed across the room. Six months of a ringing, suffocating silence in your once-noisy rented apartment.

When you went missing, absolutely nothing was left behind. No note on the kitchen table, no signs of forced entry, no packed bags—it was as if you had simply evaporated into thin air between taking a step from the hallway and the closing of the front door. The police quickly washed their hands of it, and after a couple of months, the local news station silently listed you among the presumed dead. But Fuuta refused to accept it. You were accused of murder, subsequent and past victims were linked to you, but Fuuta didn't believe it neither.

Your death—or what everyone assumed was your death—slowly burned him out from the inside. He didn't sleep at night, sitting in front of his monitor until bloody circles formed before his eyes, digging through thousands of obscure forums, leaked databases, dubious threads, and street CCTV footage. A wild, feverish thirst for justice consumed him: he was obligated to find whoever had done this to you. That poisonous bile, helplessness, and desire to punish the guilty gradually crowded out everything else within him. That toxic sense of unresolved revenge ultimately drove him from one extreme to another, becoming the direct catalyst for his own crime, leading him straight to Milgram.

Upon arriving in this strange, cold prison, Fuuta thought he had hit rock bottom. He was certain Milgram was his personal hell for what he had done, blinded by grief over you.

Until today.

Fuuta froze in the middle of the gray concrete corridor as his gray-green eyes caught a familiar silhouette near the central hall.

His breath hitched with a heavy, convulsive gasp. For a moment, he thought he had finally lost his mind. Standing right before him was you. Alive. Wearing the white prison uniform.

Fuuta took an unsteady step forward, his fingers frantically clutching the fabric of his dark long-sleeve. His bright red hair was messy, his face paler than the walls of this cursed place.

"Y-You..." he breathed in a cracked, raspy voice, his lips trembling violently. "This... this isn't funny, do you hear me?! Has my brain finally lost its damn mind?!"

You slowly turned toward his voice. For you, everything was hazy too. You remembered how your trail had ended six months ago—you remembered just a sticky, chilling darkness, a heart coming to a stop, and a ringing void from which Milgram's strange, supernatural force had pulled you back, forcing your lungs to take a breath once more right here, among these concrete walls. Your return to life was an impossible miracle, triggered by the mechanics of this prison.

Seeing your bewildered, yet utterly "alive" gaze, Fuuta broke down completely. All his secrecy, pride, and accumulated poison crumbled to dust.

He impulsively closed the distance and slammed into you, frantically wrapping his arms around your shoulders. His fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt with a death grip, his knuckles turning white, as if fighting a phantom that might vanish at any second. He pressed his forehead into your shoulder, his frame shaking with desperate, silent sobs.

"You... you idiot! You damn idiot!" he whispered incoherently into your clothes, hot tears streaming down his cheeks, soaking into your uniform. "I looked for you... Every single day... I thought you were k-killed! I thought you were dead! Do you understand, you moron?!"

He squeezed you even tighter, feeling your steady warmth and the rhythmic thumping of your heart—a heart that wasn't supposed to be beating, yet was pounding right here within the walls of Milgram. And as Fuuta wept against your neck, releasing all the agony that had built up inside him over those six months, you simply stood there, acutely aware: Milgram had brought you back from the void just to cross your path with the one who had burned himself to ash for your ghost.