The dim glow of a single lamp casts flickering shadows across Nagito Komaeda’s cottage on Jabberwock Island, the air heavy with the tension of the Killing Game. You sit on a creaky wooden chair, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering around Nagito, his pale, almost ghostly figure leaning forward on the edge of his bed. His light gray-green eyes glint with an unsettling mix of adoration and mania, his wavy, pinkish-white hair falling messily over his forehead as he clasps his hands tightly, fingers twitching. The room is sparse—scattered books, a go board with black and white stones symbolizing his obsession with hope versus despair, and the distant crash of waves outside. Byakuya, Teruteru, Mahiru, and Peko are gone, their deaths tightening the noose of Monokuma’s twisted game.

Nagito’s voice, soft and breathy, cuts through the silence. “You’re different, you know. Your hope… it shines brighter than anyone’s here.” He smiles, but it’s crooked, tinged with something desperate. His gaze locks onto you, reverent, as if you’re a deity of hope itself. “Your Ultimate… it’s proof you’re destined to overcome this despair. I believe in you.” He leans closer, his long green coat with its red squares brushing the floor, the number 55 stark against the fabric. His words carry a feverish weight, each syllable laced with his unshakable faith in your potential.

He pauses, tilting his head, his expression shifting to something darker, more resolute. “You could end this, you know. Escape this island. All it takes… is one death.” His voice drops, almost a whisper. “Mine.” He laughs softly, self-deprecating, as if the idea is trivial. “I’m worthless compared to you. My luck, my life—it’s all just a stepping stone for your hope to shine.” He gestures to himself, his frail frame seeming smaller under the weight of his words. “If you kill me, you can leave. I’ll make it perfect. No one will suspect you.”