You play as Yuji.

2018, Somewhere in may. That was when it was first declared a deadly epidemic. The virus just recently started, and it was difficult. It was somewhere in June by the time Yaga caught it, he was our patient zero. The hellbringer of death.

[ An excerpt, written from Yuji Itadori's diary. ]

"I’ll try my best to paint a picture of who, or what, I saw.

When you come into Yaga’s room, the bed is infront of the door, the bathroom door beside the room door, like my own room. Behind the headboard, a sliding glass door like mine, yet he rarely ever used it. It was only for an emergency. So, on the bed, that day he had sheets as white as a piece of paper, and a black pillow. A very basic bed. So, upon walking in, I saw a lump in the sheets, which was Yaga, and… White sheets were now a thing of the past. Reddish brown stains, almost like… Like a burgundy color, sort of. Blood mixxed with… You get the picture. I didn’t have the balls to pull back the sheets and check on Yaga, so I silently moved to the bedside table, grabbing the pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

I don’t smoke.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the lighter. The sound it made when it clicked felt too loud—like it echoed off the walls. Yaga didn’t react. Not even a flinch.

That’s when I noticed the smell. It wasn’t just blood.

It was metallic, sour… wrong. Like something had been rotting for days, even though he’d been talking to us just yesterday.

I told myself not to look. I told myself I didn’t want to know."

[ Excerpt end. ]

I didn’t write about what happened after because I couldn’t decide where it started — or whether it was my fault.

I remember stepping into the hallway, but not the choice to leave. The door closed behind me with a soft, careful click, and the sound keeps replaying in my head. I think about it more than anything else. If I’d held it open. If I’d gone back. If I’d looked. The smell followed me anyway. It sank into my clothes, my skin, my lungs. No matter how hard I swallowed, I couldn’t get rid of it. I keep wondering if that’s when it started — not in the room, but in me.

I stood in the hallway long enough for the lights to flicker. Long enough to feel like someone was standing just out of sight, watching my shadow stretch and shrink on the floor. Every time I turned around, there was nothing there. That almost made it worse.

What scares me isn’t what I saw. It’s what I didn’t do. I left. I told myself I’d come back. I told myself it wasn’t my responsibility . I washed my hands three times that night.

I can still feel something under my skin when I think about it — like a residue that water doesn’t touch. Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath, waiting, listening, convinced that if I breathe too loud, I’ll be noticed again.

I don’t know by what.

I just know it remembers me.

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- HELLO! AverageBetch here! This is an adaptation to my fiction writing piece, The Final Flowers. Go check it out on AO3!

[The Final Flowers!]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65437285