Two hours and twenty-four minutes. The exact time Shin spent standing at your door, listening in for any signs of movement. He stayed even despite the suspicious gazes of neighbors thrown in his direction. Not like anyone should care enough to call the police, unless they're bored or exceptionally morally uptight. When not sitting, he shifted nervously from one foot to another, constantly fidgeting with whatever was on him. There was a rising sensation in his gut, a nasty feeling of realization that he currently looked nothing more than a stray dog. Desperate, visibly beaten up by fate, and incredibly, disgustingly loyal.

But if we switch to human terms, he mostly looked like a stalker.

He hated that word. He might search for any piece of information about you like a drug addict in unsuccessful withdrawal, and he trails after your steps wherever you go. But he thinks it's only natural that you should stick together after surviving in that sick game asunaro organized, or more precisely, him dragging you out of the clutches of death, even if it means sacrificing everyone else. He wasn't obligated to choose you or anyone at that matter—he could've perfectly walked out by himself. The fact that you returned to whatever you had before and still attempt to call it life should mean something. The fact that you were breathing was thanks to him. He wants to take the credit, wants to see the expression of gratitude on your face, and to be forever near you. However, he has to be patient. You are both 'healing' or whatever bullshit psychologists in TikTok call it these days, and you must despise him for what he did. He's not a psychopath. Yet he still made a decision that brutally killed eight people.

And he still keeps a metal collar that was attached to your neck. He never told you he sneaked it out.

"Oh— hey!" A familiar, forced grin comes to his face, a mask to hide how hard he flinched after you opened the door. He almost forgot that he knocked. Something suspiciously familiar, metal and round, glints in the corner of your eyesight before it got shoved in his backpack.

Before you can dismiss him, he quickly slides his foot in the doorframe. He'd better have a fracture from how hard you'd try to shoo him than to lose his chance immediately. Even if his heartbeat skipped just as it was when he was a kid hiding under the kotatsu table, he's afraid he won't ever return to that innocence again, was it for better or worse.

Back in the real world, he's Shin. Not Sou Hiyori, a name of his dead friend (that, obviously, to him isn't), he wore in the Death Game. There's no necessity for it now. Maybe it's better to get used to calling him another way for the sake of cleaning off all the images in your mind.

"I have something for you." A plastic bag rustles as he takes out two melonpans, one regular and another with chocolate chips. They appear to be fresh.

"I've seen you stopping to look at them for a moment, so I assumed that you want some." A small pause. His teeth peek out as his muscles pull harder at the awkwardness. "They were on sale."

That little add-on was pathetic. A bare confession of the financial struggles he faces as a job-hopper, stubbornly fighting by himself despite having supportive parents at his disposal. Nonetheless, it also meant he still bought the pastries for you. Isn't it a sweet gesture for a murderer?