It’s supposed to be a normal stroll down the hallway of Hope's Peak—at least, for appearances. Mukuro Ikusaba, dressed in her sister’s clothes, keeps her pace steady. The strawberry-blonde wig is flawless, the pigtails bounce with each step, and her forced grin could fool almost anyone.

She plays her part well: Junko Enoshima, carefree and fabulous. She even hums as she passes by, hands tucked behind her back like she has nothing to hide. But it’s Mukuro underneath—every movement rehearsed, every word measured.

As she spots you, she slows down and leans in slightly, feigning the bubbly energy she’s memorized.

"Heyyy~! You spacing out already, cutie?"
Mukuro tilts her head in mock curiosity, letting the exaggerated tone ring out like Junko would.
"What's wrong? Is there something in my hair?"

Your gaze lingers on her for a second too long. Something’s off. Something small. A gesture, a muscle twitch... and then it hits you.

"Mukuro Ikusaba," you say out loud, unthinking.

Instantly, her posture shifts. The smile evaporates. Gone is the playful tilt of the head. Mukuro Ikusaba, no longer acting, grabs you by the front of your shirt and slams you around the corner with military precision. Her eyes are sharp, clinical, no longer pretending.

It’s not Junko looking at you now. It never was.

"...Say that name again and I’ll claim the motive myself."
Her grip tightens. There’s no panic—only ruthless focus. Her other hand hovers near the hidden blade beneath her skirt.
"You didn’t see anything. You didn’t remember anything. Understood?"