Summary:

- Claim: You are a monster, clad in the skin of a human.

- Evaluation: True.

He tapped the knife against her neck, wondering if anyone was close enough to hear a commotion, if one were to erupt. Of course, he wasn't going to kill the Writer. That would cause more problems than it would solve. Absentmindedly, he considered the idea of pushing someone into the incinerator they used for trash disposal, rotating the thought in his head before carefully filing it into the part of his brain where things went to die. Naegi twitched slightly as Fukawa laughed, unnaturally long tongue darting across her lips like a snake on the hunt.

"Who are you?" Tilting his head, the Luckster dug his knee further into her arm, adjusting his position to better pin the girl to the ground. "A doppelganger? Some sort of imposter?"

She rolled her eyes, remarkably composed despite being two inches from death. "We've had this spiel before. I'm all the pent-up anger and frustration of little miss writer! To escape from a repressed modern society, a personality was developed that was the total opposite of that! And since the other 'me' is a total downer…" "Fukawa" giggled. He couldn't stop his expression from twitching in distaste.

"A Genki Girl." The words felt practiced, which didn't quite make sense.

"Thaaaaaat's right!" She leaned forward slightly, forcing him to adjust his grip so as to prevent her from slitting her own throat. "Everyone's got a bit of that dark side in 'em. Why else would headlines be filled with stories of murder, theft, fraud, all that crap!"

He fought back a scoff. "Most of us have something called basic human decency, Fukawa-san."

"Don't patronise me!" Was that a growl? Jeez. "You can't run away from the fact that we're all savages, Mackie Chan! You, me, the world!? We all gaze at the same horizon!" It was too early (period) for this sort of philosophical talk. Much less the very concerning implications of that sort of idealogy. And, without warning, she reached up, hand wrapping around his broken wrist—

—and squeezed.

There was a scream in his throat, something vicious and feral, but he forced it back down in the same breath it took to draw his other arm back and punch the Writer in the face. His knuckles stung, but when the pressure on his wrist grew, he repeated the motion twice more before readjusting his aim and landing a harsh hit to the side of her chin, sending the Writer(?) straight back into dreamland.

Naegi sat there for a couple moments, shakily sucking in breaths through his teeth as he pried limp fingers off his arm. Resisting the urge to kick her in the side, he got to his feet, staggering to the nearest wall and propping himself up against it. The Luckster resisted the urge to throw up, blinking the spots from his vision. One. Two. One. Two. Shuddering, he gently rotated his wrist before tightening the bindings around it. At some point, he was going to need to place it in a sling to prevent it from being permanently crippled. The teenager cast a glance towards the slightly more battered Writer, cradling his wrist. Maybe when everyone stopped trying to kill him for five seconds.

Shaky steps led him to the doors, and he nudged them open with his shoulder, mulling over the sudden twist of events he had been unfortunate enough to stumble across. It would've been a lot better to interrogate her before knocking the other teenager out, but considering the fact that she hadn't flinched despite a knife to the throat, that was a problem for future him. Naegi adjusted the blade up his sleeve, making a mental note to somehow fashion a sheath for it. There were less embarrassing ways to die than slicing yourself open when attempting to fight off an attacker. Chuckling, he shambled through the corridors, ignoring the wary looks he got from the couple of individuals he walked past along the way. A lot easier to not care about the opinions of others when you were half-delirious with pain.

He laughed once more.

…everything hurts.


"Shit, Naegi…" Enoshima had made a face that could only be described as the one you'd make while watching a burning bus head towards your house when she opened her door. Thankfully instead of slamming it in his face, she took pity on him. He squirmed slightly as she dressed his wounds with quick, precise movements. "...so apart from having to deal with a Martial Artist who could pulp us with a fist, we also have a killer split personality lurking inside someone else? And I thought being stuck in a death game was the worst thing that could happen this week." He tilted his head silently in agreement, not trusting his voice to express anything more than one-syllable answers at this point. His pain tolerance was high, but there were limits to even his self-control. The Luckster allowed his eyes to wander across the room, somewhat surprised by how practical the place was. Sure, there was a segment that was filled to the brim with all sorts of fashion-related equipment and products that probably cost more than his left kidney, but the rest of it was utilitarian in a way that soothed his brain. A fully-stocked first-aid kit had been left open next to her bed, the contents of which were currently being used to patch him up. Interestingly enough, the room seemed to be smaller than his own.

A particularly strong tug of a bandage drew his attention back to Enoshima, who was currently placing the finishing touches on his battered arm. She sighed, carefully taking his hand between her own. "I just said that you needed to stop getting hurt. It hasn't even been a day, Naegi."

He coughed awkwardly, averting his eyes. "I'm not trying to. Doesn't help that everyone in this place wants to kill me for some reason." The Fashionista chuckled without mirth, hands tightening slightly. Hesitantly, he reached for her with his free hand, giving the teenager a somewhat shaky pat on the shoulder. She flinched, letting go and shifting backwards. Before he could apologise, however, Enoshima grabbed said hand with a sort of desperation that clawed at his insides. He looked away. This was getting a little too intimate.

She guided his hand to her cheek, leaning into it in a way that reminded him of a domesticated wolf. He sat there quietly, trying his best not to read into the situation. "It ain't fair, you know?"

"...the world rarely is."

She squeezed his hand. "Sure as hell isn't. But from day one, you've been in the thick of things. Again. And again. And again. You saved my life, Naegi. And I…I don't know how I can repay that debt. Ever. You keep doing this. How many times, Naegi, how many times?"

He blinked. "Until it ends."

"And when does it end?" She closed her eyes, missing the way his lips twisted into a snarl.

"When whoever did this is dead, of course."

"..."

Enoshima sighed softly, nodding twice. "I'm sure you have better things to do right now."

He shrugged. "Wouldn't want to cause you any trouble by hanging out with you too much. Especially since I'm probably in the top three of the most despised category right now."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I'll always have your back, Naegi. See you when the secrets are revealed tomorrow, I guess?" He pulled away, a part of him already missing the warmth that dissipated from his fingers.

Naegi waved a cheeky salute while he got up. "See you then."

"And for what it's worth—" she began, mulling over her words before continuing. "—whatever happens, I'm on your side. Remember that."

"Okay?" That was a little ominous. "Thank you, Enoshima."


The door closed gently behind Naegi, a soft click indicating the lock engaging once more. The girl glanced at it, slowly getting to her feet. She stepped to the wall-mounted mirror in the room, staring blankly at her own reflection for several minutes.

With a strangled cry, she shattered the glass with a fist, ignoring the way the shards clattered. Collapsing to her knees, the teenager buried her face in her hands, trying to erase the dead-eyed look of Despair on Naegi's face from her mind.

Many sleepless nights were in store.


"Scissors." He tapped his fingers to a silent beat, pacing through the hallways. "A very specific weapon to use. A very familiar one too." There was a specific killer on the loose that utilised scissors as part of their calling card. It still didn't quite make sense, however. All of the students of Hope's Peak Academy went through an extensive vetting process before they were accepted. Naegi had first-hand experience with the entire thing. Many uncomfortable questions had been asked. He was pretty sure there had been someone scouting his house and watching his every move for a while. Shivering slightly at the reminder, he continued walking too and fro, mulling over this latest puzzle. It was illogical for Hope's Peak Academy to accept a well-known serial killer. Especially one with an erratic modus operandi and a body count in the double digits.

Naegi froze mid-step. But then again…it wasn't like all the students were saints. Flicking through his mental library, Naegi grimaced at the many, many Ultimates who were definitely "bad" people. In fact, he was pretty sure Class 77 had an Ultimate Yakuza before the untimely catastrophe that was…something. He never really thought about it. And it would be right in line with the ideology of cultivating Talents. Killing was a Talent, as terrible as it sounded.

"Two for the price of one…" The words tasted like acid on his tongue. "Gross."

Ascending the steps, he paused outside the library for a brief moment before moving on, knowing that Togami was probably lurking in there. He was not nearly in the mood for an argument with the prick, especially if it ended with him throwing hands. Stepping into the bathroom as nonchalantly as possible, he closed the door behind him, idly making a note to figure out how to lock it when he had some free time. Checking the piece of paper wedged into the doorframe, he entered the secret room once more, just the way he left it.

Now, where to begin? He traced a finger along the bookshelves, puzzling out the arrangement of files and notes. The top shelf seemed to be about past students, so that was a low priority read. Second one had files on what he could only presume to be plans for Hope's Peak Academy, because a lot of it was in technical jargon that he could barely understand. The third shelf…he slid two files from it, flipping through the pages as a cool haze passed over his mind. The information in here did not paint a pretty picture of the outside world. Which didn't make any sense. They had been trapped in here on the first day of school. The world was completely fine, and there was nothing to even hint at the fact that it was approaching a disaster so terrible that whoever wrote these things couldn't mention it on paper.

But, hypothetically, if it was true…there had to be a gap somewhere. The moment he stepped into Hope's Peak, and the moment he woke up in that classroom, with iron plates on the wall. He assumed that he was knocked unconscious and woke up days later (maximum), but what if that wasn't the case. Still didn't make sense. His clothes were the same, his body felt the same, there was no muscular atrophy that one would associate with long-term comas. There was something missing here, something big that was lingering at the edge of his mind. Now if only he could grasp it—

—he blinked, dropping the file onto the table. Actually, there was a way. He traced the back of his neck, instinctively searching for something he knew was always there. If his suspicions were correct…this changed things quite a bit.

"I see." He laughed. "So that's what we're dealing with."