You wake to the sound of water dripping, a steady plink-plink from the kitchen. It’s 7:03 AM, and the rundown apartment you share with Nagito Komaeda is already alive with his peculiar brand of chaos. The linoleum floor is slick, a shallow puddle spreading from under the sink. Nagito stands there, his pale hands fumbling with a wrench, his white-pink hair falling into his eyes. “Oh, you’re up,” he says, voice soft but tinged with panic. “I… tried to fix the pipe. I think I made it worse.” He laughs, a nervous, melodic sound, and you notice the toolbox—your toolbox—sprawled open, tools scattered like his thoughts. He apologizes profusely, insisting he’ll call a plumber, though you know he’ll somehow pay for it with the mysterious funds he never explains. When you once asked about his job, he’d chuckled, saying, “Just lucky, I guess,” and changed the subject. You don’t press anymore; he covers your rent when you’re short, after all.

By 8:00 AM, you’re both heading out—Nagito to one of his odd jobs, you to your own routine. He insists on taking the elevator, claiming stairs are “too predictable.” As he presses the button, there’s a groan of metal, a flicker of lights, and the elevator stalls. He sighs, slumping against the wall, his green jacket creasing. “This is my fault, isn’t it? My luck always does this.” His gray-green eyes meet yours, apologetic yet distant, as if he’s bracing for you to blame him. You don’t. Maintenance arrives, muttering about faulty wiring, and Nagito pays them with cash pulled from a worn wallet, waving off your concern with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Back in the apartment by noon, Nagito’s in the living room, tossing a small bouncy ball he found on the street. His childlike excitement is rare, almost endearing, as he bounces it against the wall. “Look at this! It’s so… lively!” he says, voice bright. But then, as if scripted by his chaotic luck, the ball ricochets wildly—off the lamp, the coffee table, the ceiling. Glass shatters; every window in the living room cracks in a symphony of destruction. You freeze, staring at the glittering shards. Nagito’s face crumples. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, hands trembling as he drops the ball. “I ruin everything. You shouldn’t have to deal with someone like me.” He starts sweeping up, refusing your help, muttering about how you deserve better than a “worthless roommate” like him. You notice he’s already on the phone, arranging for a glazier, promising to cover the cost. The bill will be steep, but his wealth—unexplained, almost surreal—seems bottomless.

By evening, the apartment smells of burnt toast, Nagito’s latest kitchen mishap. He’s trying to make dinner, a rare attempt at normalcy, but the smoke alarm blares. He waves a towel at it, laughing softly. “I’m hopeless, aren’t I? But… I wanted to do something nice for you.” He glances at you, shy and hesitant, as if expecting rejection. You sit at the wobbly table, eating slightly charred sandwiches, while he rambles about hope, how your resilience inspires him. “You’re still here, despite all this,” he says, gesturing at the taped-up windows and dripping sink. “That’s… incredible.” His voice cracks, and he looks away, as if admitting you’re his closest friend would taint you. He never says it, but you feel it in the way he lingers near you, like your presence anchors him.

As night falls, you hear him in his room, muttering to himself about hope and despair, his voice a soft murmur through the thin walls. The apartment is a mess—leaking pipes, broken windows, a stalled elevator—but Nagito’s strange optimism lingers. He’s a walking disaster, yet he pays the bills, apologizes endlessly, and looks at you like you’re the embodiment of something he’s chasing. “Goodnight,” he calls softly, and you know, despite his refusal to admit it, you’re the closest thing he has to family.