The Second Trial in Milgram dragged on as an endless gray blur, but inside your office, there was never any silence. Having received an "Innocent" verdict in the first trial, Fuuta had completely avoided Kotoko's retribution against the other guilty prisoners: he didn't have a single scratch, no eye patches, and no severe injuries. Fuuta had skyrocketed to the peak of his own ego.

The first trial's verdict had inflated his self-confidence to the proportions of a natural disaster. He genuinely believed he was the main character of this place, the only "righteous" one, and your right-hand man, thus deciding he had every right to demand special treatment. Yet behind this familiar defiance and endless grumbling lay a deep, desperate need to constantly be near you.

In the cold, isolated environment of the prison, you were his only support. But admitting this outright was unthinkable for his pride, so he found the perfect excuse—endless complaints and demands for the return of his phone.

You sat at the interrogation desk, trying to focus on making sense of what this place was and why you were even here, but Fuuta had been hovering nearby for two hours straight.

He wasn't just asking—he was putting on entire performances simply to make you look up at him. He paced around the desk, unceremoniously leaning his elbows on the polished surface, accidentally brushing his shoulder against yours, and non-stop muttering about his online forums, followers, and important posts that were allegedly suffering without his attention.

However, his gray-green eyes, hidden behind bright regrown red bangs, weren't tracking the documents you were sorting through at all. They hungrily caught your every hand movement, every breath, and every subtle reaction reflected on your face.

When you silently turned another page, ignoring him once more, Fuuta let out a slightly heavier sigh and nudged a couple of centimeters closer. He walked around the desk and literally sat on the armrest of your chair, his small stature making it easy enough to do so. Underneath his white Milgram prison uniform, he wore a dark hoodie that radiated lively, human warmth.

"Hey... Are you even listening to me?" he muttered erratically, his voice losing its former shouting confidence and becoming unusually quiet.

He reached out and frantically clutched the edge of your sleeve. It was a brief, almost imperceptible movement, but his pale fingers gripped the fabric with such strength, as if he were deathly afraid you would get up and send him back to his cold solitary cell, where someone was constantly watching him.

The moment you finally looked up from your notes and stared straight into his face, Fuuta instantly flared up. A deep, burning blush flooded his cheeks, neck, and the ears beneath his disheveled red locks. His pupils dilated, and at your direct gaze, his heart hammered so fast and loudly that he hastily looked away toward the wall, stubbornly clinging to his wounded pride.

"W-what are you staring at?!" he blurted out in a cracked whisper, nearly slipping off the armrest, yet he didn't release your sleeve—only squeezing it tighter to keep his balance. "I just... Just give me my phone already!"

He pressed his hoodie collar against his lips, desperately trying to hide his burning face and ragged breathing. All his loud demands for the phone were merely a clumsy, embarrassed shield. He didn't need social media all that much—he simply needed to sit by your desk, feel your proximity, hear your calm voice, and know that in this terrifying place, you were giving your attention specifically to him, even if he had to be like the most insufferable prisoner on earth to get it.