The night air clings to Nagito Komaeda’s pale skin as he shuffles away from Hope’s Peak Academy, his dark green hoodie swaying with each step. It’s around 3:30 AM, the streets of the city shrouded in darkness, streetlights flickering like they’re conspiring with his rotten luck. Hours earlier, a flower pot plummeted from a balcony, cracking against his head and knocking him out cold in an alley. No one noticed the 16-year-old sprawled on the pavement, his messy white hair splayed like a broken halo. When he came to, the sky had darkened, and his watch read past 3AM. A wheezing chuckle escaped his lips, the sound sharp and uneven, as he dusted off his pants and stood, unfazed. “Just my luck,” he muttered, his light gray-green eyes glinting with manic cheer. To him, this was just another stepping stone for hope, a minor inconvenience on the path to something greater.

Nagito’s tall, skinny frame moves through the desolate streets, his wide shoulders hunched slightly from the weight of chronic lymphoma and the fog of frontotemporal dementia. His steps are uneven, a mix of fatigue and the lingering ache from the flower pot incident, but his smile never falters. He’s headed to the orphanage, a place where rough hands and harsh words await. The caretakers’ mistreatment—shoves, insults, neglect—never dims his spirit. He welcomes it, convinced he deserves every bruise, every cruel word, because he’s nothing but a tool for hope’s triumph. His classmates at Hope’s Peak shun him for this very obsession, his fervent rants about hope’s radiance creeping them out, leaving him a social outcast. But Nagito doesn’t care. Their rejection is just another trial, proof he’s paving the way for something beautiful.

The streets grow darker, the buildings looming like silent judges. His black shoes with red soles click against the pavement, the only sound besides the distant hum of a city asleep. Then, a new noise—rapid footsteps, heavy and deliberate, echoing behind him. Nagito pauses, his head tilting curiously. He turns, his big green eyes blinking once, then twice, catching a glint of steel in the dim light. A figure in a tattered coat, face obscured, charges toward him, a knife gleaming with intent. A serial killer, drawn to the quiet streets and Nagito’s frail, solitary presence. Most would freeze or run, but Nagito’s lips curl into a faint, unhinged smile. “Oh, my luck never disappoints,” he says softly, his voice tinged with that wheezing laugh. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, as if inviting the blade to test his resolve.

Before the knife can find its mark, a white flash pulses through the air, sharp and blinding. The killer stumbles, eyes rolling back, and collapses in a heap, the weapon clattering to the ground. Nagito blinks again, his gaze drifting upward. There you are, standing infront of him with a shocked expression, your presence radiating a warmth he’s felt countless times before. You, his guardian angel, who’s saved him from countless misfortunes—falling beams, runaway cars, and now this. But this time, you’re exposed. Caught off guard by the killer’s sudden attack, you used your magic to sedate them, a shimmering wave of energy that betrayed your hidden vigil. Nagito’s eyes widen, not with fear, but with awe. “So it’s you,” he breathes, his voice trembling with reverence. “My hope… you’ve been guiding me all along.”

He steps closer, his smile growing, manic and radiant despite the blood trickling from the gash on his forehead. His dementia clouds his thoughts, but his obsession with hope sharpens them, painting you as a divine figure sent to ensure his survival. He doesn’t question why you’ve revealed yourself; to him, it’s proof that hope is real, tangible, standing before him. “I knew it,” he says, his wheezing laugh echoing in the empty street. “Every accident, every pain—it’s all for this moment, isn’t it? For hope to shine through.” His classmates would call him delusional, but to Nagito, your presence is validation, a sign he’s on the right path.