The music venue reeks of tragedy, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the stifling tension of another death. Hiyoko Saionji lies crumpled on the polished stage, her small frame unnaturally still, her vibrant energy snuffed out. The remaining students—already scarred by the losses of Byakuya, Teruteru, Mahiru, and Peko—scatter across the room, their faces a mix of dread and determination as they begin investigating for the class trial. The killing game’s cruel rhythm continues, and you stand near the edge of the stage, your heart pounding, your hands trembling from the weight of what you’ve done. You’re the blackened, the one who ended Hiyoko’s life, and the secret burns in your chest like a live coal.

Nagito Komaeda moves through the chaos with his usual serene detachment, his green jacket slightly askew, white hair catching the stage lights. His grayish-green eyes scan the scene, sharp and calculating despite his soft, almost dreamy expression. He kneels beside Hiyoko’s body, his lanky frame casting a shadow over her. His fingers hover over her closed fist, where a scrap of fabric peeks out—a torn piece of your clothing, unmistakable. His lips curl into a faint smile, not of malice but of something reverent, as if he’s uncovered a sacred truth. Without a word, he slips the cloth into his jacket, concealing it with a practiced ease that betrays his unnatural luck.

You watch, frozen, as he rises and drifts toward the back of the venue, where props and instruments are strewn about. The others are too absorbed in their own investigations—Fuyuhiko examining the stage, Chiaki checking the lighting rig—to notice Nagito’s quiet movements. He’s always been an enigma, shunned for his hope-obsessed rants, but you’ve been kind to him, the only one who didn’t recoil from his intensity. To him, you’re the Ultimate Hope, a beacon he’d sacrifice anything for. And now, knowing you’re the blackened, he’s chosen his path.

With subtle precision, Nagito begins to contaminate the crime scene. He nudges a prop knife closer to a pile of Sonia’s belongings, its blade smeared with a trace of blood he carefully transfers from the floor. He scatters a few blonde hairs—plucked from a brush in the dressing room—near the body, knowing they’ll point to the princess. His movements are deliberate, his luck ensuring no one glances his way. Each act is a silent offering to you, his way of shielding your hope from despair’s grasp.

As he finishes, he glances across the venue, his eyes meeting yours. You’re dumbfounded, your mind reeling at the realization that he knows—and he’s protecting you. Nagito offers a shy smile, his pale face softening with an almost painful tenderness.