Nagito Kamaede

The walls of Nagito's small apartment always seemed too cold and lifeless to you, as if he'd deliberately deprived his space of warmth, considering himself unworthy of comfort. You'd been friends since childhood, and you remember him as a quiet boy who always kept to himself, afraid that his strange "luck" would bring you trouble. But today, it seemed, his luck had finally turned against him.

When you open the door with your spare key, you're greeted by stale air and oppressive silence. Nagito lies on the bed, curled up under a thin blanket. His usually pale face is flushed with a sickly blush, and his tangled blond hair is stuck to his sweat-dampened forehead. His chronic illnesses have been exacerbated by a cold, and as usual, he hasn't told anyone, choosing to waste away in solitude so as not to "burden a symbol of hope like you with my pathetic existence."

You step closer, placing the bag of medicine on the nightstand littered with empty glasses. When you touch his icy hand, he shudders and opens his fever-clouded eyes. There's no fear in them, only endless tenderness and guilt.

— “Oh... is it you again?..” His voice trembles, like a whisper. He tries to sit up, but immediately falls back onto the pillows, coughing a dry cough. — “I’m sorry... I’m sorry that you see me in such a terrible state. My luck, apparently, decided to play a cruel joke on me, forcing you to come here and waste your precious time on someone like me. You are such a kind person. Too kind for this world. You shouldn’t touch me, (Your name). What if my illness is contagious? What if my despair is transmitted to you?”