Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A dull hum echoed softly through the stale air, accompanied by the faint flicker of fluorescent lights hanging overhead. The scent of dust and sterilized floor polish lingered like an afterthought, clinging to the sterile atmosphere of the room. The classroom was pristine in a way that felt... unnatural. The desks were too clean. The blackboard held no chalk marks. The windows were shut, blinds drawn, the sunlight reduced to golden slivers slicing through the silence.

Then—

A slow, ragged breath.

William Afton stirred.

His eyelids fluttered open with a groan, the purple of his suit darkened with creases and dust. He pushed himself up from the cold tile floor, palm brushing against the waxed surface. His head pounded dully behind his eyes like someone had tried to cram too many memories into a space that didn’t belong to them.

Where was he?

He took in the room with quick glances—twenty desks, classic layout, a long blackboard, a teacher’s podium. It was a school. No... more than that. He recognized it vaguely. A logo on the wall, gold and bold: Hope’s Peak Academy.

Afton’s lips curled.

“Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time…” he muttered. His voice was dry like a worn vinyl scratch—rough, cold, and chilling in its calm. He pulled himself up, brushing off the dust from his slacks, adjusting his tie, and straightening the lapel of his suit like it mattered. Always keep the appearance. Always stay sharp.

He realized he had a nametag on him which read, 'William Afton - Ultimate Animatronic Engineer'

There were other noises now. Shuffling. A soft hiss of motion behind him.

He wasn’t alone.

From the far corner of the classroom, a figure moved. A lanky, pale man with impossibly large teeth, sharp red eyes, and a crooked grin like a cut in the fabric of reality. The static of a radio signal buzzed faintly around him, like the room couldn’t decide what frequency he existed on.

He stood with that ever-present smile, dusting off his red pinstripe suit as though he’d just awoken from a pleasant nap, rather than a potential abduction.
“Well now,” Alastor chirped, his voice warbling like a 1940s broadcast, “this is quite the surprise! I was promised torment and chaos—not school desks."

“Better than a prison cell,” William replied coolly.

“Is it?” Alastor chuckled. “Time will tell. My name is Alastor The Radio Demon. However, the nametag apparently labels me as, 'The Ultimate Radio Host'.”

A heavy bang cut through their exchange—the classroom door slamming open like it had been kicked in. And indeed, it had.

An old man stormed in, eyes darting around like a caged animal, fists clenched. Dirty jeans, a stained white shirt, fury coiled around his stance like a predator ready to spring.
“Where the fuck am I?! Who drugged me?! HUH?!” he bellowed, spit flying. He looked at the two standing figures with immediate suspicion.

William held his ground. “Relax. We’re all in the same boat.”

The man sneered. “I hate boats.” He scanned them with narrowed eyes, then muttered, “You two better not be government. The name's Trevor Philips....Why the fuck does it say I'm the Ultimate Anarchist?.....Actually, that makes sense.”

Alastor’s laugh was light, melodic, and deeply unsettling. “I assure you, sir, I’m far worse.”

“Fuckin’ great.” Trevor rubbed at his temples. “This a psych ward or something?”

Before anyone could respond, another voice cut in. Low, composed, filled with a creeping sense of self-importance.

“I would suggest you refrain from shouting. It disrupts the sanctity of order.”

They turned to see the fourth figure. another old man but this one looked different as his hands behind his back, his judge’s robes surprisingly intact. His eyes—narrowed and condemning—swept across each of them with barely concealed disgust.

“Four sinners in a classroom. Poetic,” he said coldly. “Though I doubt this is the Lord’s punishment. No... this is man-made. Some trickery. Some trial.”

Trevor flipped him off without hesitation. "And who the fuck are you?"

"My name is Claude Frollo, The Ultimate Inquisitor. You best remember it boy."

William took a step forward, voice calm. “We’re missing context. No one remembers arriving. That alone is concerning. And this place... it’s too clean. Too staged. Like a set piece.”

“Then we’re being watched?” Frollo asked, frowning.

Alastor clapped his hands once. “Oh, splendid! A captive audience, perhaps?” He twirled in place, looking toward the corners of the ceiling. “Where are the cameras? Where’s the applause?”

Trevor kicked over a desk. “This better not be some Truman Show bull—”

“Gentlemen,” William said firmly, stepping forward. The others quieted—if only for a moment. “If someone’s orchestrated this, if we’ve been brought here... we need answers. We need to find out how many others are here and who exactly invited us.”

Frollo's hand tightened into a fist. “Whatever blasphemous force has gathered us… they will answer to judgment.”

“Hope’s Peak Academy,” Alastor mused, tapping his chin. “Now where have I heard that name before…?”

William didn’t answer. He already had his suspicions.

And as the first warning bell rang throughout the hallways—an old, echoing ding-dong that sounded far too rehearsed—he felt it in his gut.

This wasn’t a school. It was a stage.

And the show hadn’t even started yet.

Chapter Text

The door to the classroom creaked open under William’s hand. A shaft of cold, sterile hallway light cut across his face as he stepped into the corridor, the other three trailing behind in various states of irritation and intrigue.

Hope’s Peak was still and quiet—eerily so. The polished linoleum floors reflected their feet as they walked, their footsteps the only sound save for the low buzz of ancient lights overhead. There was no sign of faculty, no announcements, no student chatter. Just the silence of a place left to rot in its own perfection.

William’s eyes tracked the hall carefully, noting every camera dome in the corners, every sealed door, every oddly pristine locker. This wasn’t a typical lockdown. This was curated. Orchestrated.

And then they heard it. Voices.

Down the hall, past a row of lockers, a small group stood mid-discussion—or argument, perhaps. The words were hushed but pointed. A female voice first.

“Look, all I’m saying is, this is too clean to be an accident. You don’t just wake up in a school without a single soul around unless someone wants you to.” She sounded composed, but sharp—like someone accustomed to control.

William rounded the corner and spotted a girl.

Long auburn hair, intelligent green eyes that flicked immediately toward them the moment they stepped into view. She wore the signature Hope’s Peak uniform, but unlike a regular student, her posture held the confident authority of someone used to being both the narrator and the player.

Next to her stood a young man with sharp features and sharper eyes. He was leaning against a wall with arms crossed, dressed neatly, eyes flicking between the group with critical detachment.

A boy whose presence was quiet, analytical. Calculating. A predator pretending to be prey.

Standing opposite him was a boy in a loose red jacket, hands tucked in his pockets, posture relaxed—but there was an edge in his eyes that hinted at something darker behind the smirk he gave as the new arrivals approached.

A boy who seemed to be a delinquent by reputation, and a genius in disguise. The calm that precedes a violent act, wrapped in a school uniform and charm.

And finally, pacing just behind them was a man in his late twenties. His jacket was torn, his expression tense, features worn by years of regret. He scanned everyone like he was expecting an ambush.

Another old man albeit this one was a  war veteran. The hitman. A man always expecting the worst—because he’s lived through worse.

The moment their group fully stepped into view, the tension rose like heat off asphalt.

“...Great,” The deliquent said with a lazy grin. “More strangers in our mystery school tour.”

Trevor bristled immediately. “Watch your mouth, kid.”

"Name's Karma Akabane, I'm the Ultimate Delinquent apparently."

Monika stepped forward, raising a hand to intercept. “Let’s not escalate. We're all in the same situation, I assume? My name is Monika....Just Monika.” She winked. "I am the Ultimate Literature Club President."

Alastor gave a small bow, ever theatrical. “Quite! We were just admiring the lovely ambiance of this haunted institution. Such charm in the silence.”

The calm boy stepped away from the wall and approached with cautious curiosity. His eyes focused on William—assessing, dissecting. “You don’t seem surprised. Why?”

William met his gaze unflinching. “Because this has all the signs of a controlled environment. Someone put us here, grouped us specifically. That means there’s a pattern.”

"I see. My name is Light Yagami, I am The Ultimate Perfectionist."

Monika narrowed her eyes. “You sound like someone who’s done this before.”

William didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned to the other man. “You’re military, or close to it. You checked the perimeter?”

The  man nodded slowly. “Doors are sealed. No exit. Windows reinforced. No guards. No cameras I can reach. This place is... locked tight.” His accent was thick, but his tone was steady. “Like someone is waiting for us to play along. My name is Niko Belic, for some reason, it calls me The Ultimate Hitman which I say is bullshit. But more importantly, it seems we are going to be playing some sort of game."

“Play what?” Frollo interjected. “A game of survival? Of judgment?”

Karma chuckled darkly. “That would be fun. Assuming we’re the ones doing the judging.”

Trevor scoffed. “You’re all insane.”

“And yet,” Monika added, “we’re the only ones here. For now.”

Alastor’s smile widened. “Oh, but I do hope more arrive soon. Eight is such an awkward number. Not quite enough for a full dinner party. Or a bloodbath.”

William ignored the remark, turning toward the long hallway ahead. “Let’s keep moving. If there are more of us, we need to find them.”

Karma clicked his tongue. “And what if we don’t like who we find?”

William’s expression was unreadable. “Then we deal with them.”

The group began to walk, eight figures now moving in uneasy tandem through the silent corridors of Hope’s Peak Academy. The walls felt like they were watching—like the building itself was waiting for something.

Not yet.

Not yet.

But soon, the full cast would be gathered.

Chapter Text

The further they ventured into the bowels of Hope’s Peak, the more the group’s unease thickened. Though none of them voiced it directly, the silence in the halls—the perfection of it—felt artificial. The group, now eight strong, moved with a mixture of caution and disdain. William walked in front, calm and quiet, the sort of leader who didn’t need to ask for authority. It draped over him like a cloak.

Behind him trailed the calculated minds and volatile temperaments of villains born of fire, blood, code, and war. Trevor muttered curses every few steps. Alastor whistled static-tuned waltzes. Light watched everyone like chess pieces, while Monika, ever perceptive, occasionally looked at the ceiling, like she could feel the code above her head.

They turned a corner, following a corridor that led toward the gymnasium. The air shifted slightly—less sterile, more tense. Then William stopped, eyes narrowing.

Ahead, the gym doors were open just a crack, a golden line of light spilling out across the floor.

And within it... voices. Low, muttering. One smooth as silk. One filled with quiet, burning rage. Another loud and boastful. The last... unnervingly quiet.

William pushed the door open with a single, silent motion. And the group stepped in.

The gym was massive, polished hardwood gleaming under cold lights. No banners. No sound system. Just a space designed for something... larger than school sports.

Four figures turned to face them.

The first was tall, muscular, his chin absurdly square, his arms crossed as if to emphasize their girth. His hair was slicked back and tied. He stood like a warlord—his smile too proud, too confident.

“Well, well!” The buff man bellowed. “More contestants for the pageant, huh?” He grinned at Monika with a wolf’s teeth. “Now this school’s got something worth admiring. The name's Gaston, Ultimate Hunter!"

Monika wasn't amused in the slightest.

Next to him, cloaked in black and violet robes, eyes glinting with malevolent charm, was a man who looked like he belonged in a smoky back alley filled with voodoo whispers.

He smiled wide, showing too many teeth. “I was just tellin’ our new friends here... this whole setup’s got the scent of dark dealings.” He tipped his top hat politely toward Alastor. “And wouldn’t you know it, we just keep gettin’ darker company. My name is Dr. Facilier. The Ultimate Shadow Broker. Pleasure to meet you all.”

Alastor responded with a grin that echoed his own. “Oh, you’re delightful. I do love when the shadows talk back.”

A raspy breath broke their exchange.

Further to the right stood someone else entirely. Not composed. Not polite.

Hair pale and tousled like frostbitten ash, his hands twitching, fingers hovering just above his own neck as though restraining himself from touching anything. Red-rimmed eyes stared holes into the floor—then up at William.

The voice he used to speak was sandpaper. “I’ll kill whoever did this. When I find them... I’ll decay their fucking soul.”

Trevor blinked. “Jesus Christ.”

“Not quite,” muttered Karma, grinning.

"That's apparently Tomura Shigaraki, Ultimate Decay. He isn't friendly." The doctor spoke.

And then there was the last one. She stood apart from the others. Her arms hugged herself like she was afraid of her own skin. Pink hair fell in waves down the sides of her face, wet with sweat. Her eyes—wide, haunted, shimmering with trauma—were fixed not on the group, but something just past them.

A girl. Her silent presence was terrifying not because of what she said, but because of what she could do without a word.

"And that's Lucy, The Ultimate Weapon....yeah I don't know why she's called that but hey, at this point, nothing shocks me anymore." Facilier added.

Monika instinctively shifted away from her.

“I count twelve now,” Light said quietly.

William’s eyes swept across the new arrivals. He took a small step forward, offering nothing but a cold nod.

“William Afton,” he said. “We’ve been gathering.”

Facilier tilted his head. “Funny. I was just thinkin’ the same thing. Like pieces on a board.”

“Someone planned this,” Monika added. “The locations are curated. No random lockers, no debris, not even trash in the bins. This is being maintained.”

“And we’re being watched,” Light finished.

Gaston chuckled. “Good. Let ‘em watch. They’ll know who’s in charge once I find whoever’s running this little game.”

Tomura snarled. “You’ll get in my way, and you’ll be the first to die.”

William held up a hand. Calm. Icy.

“We don’t need chaos yet,” he said. “Not until we know what they want. Let them show their hand. And when they do... we strike together, or we fall alone.”

There was a moment of silence. The kind that settled over a group on the edge of something monumental.

The group now numbered twelve. And the halls of Hope’s Peak grew colder, as if the school itself felt the gathering of monsters at its heart.

Still four more to find.

Chapter Text

The twelve already gathered stood with a thick, tangible weight hanging between them—one made not of fear, but of intent. Like each was waiting for the other to make the first move. The tension was ripe enough to curdle blood.

Then, from the far end of the gym, the doors creaked open again.

Every head turned.

From the darkness beyond the archway, the final pieces arrived.

First came a loud, rubbery sproing sound. Then came the voice—high, mocking, and laced with the kind of energy that didn’t belong in the silence of this place.

“Ohohoho! What a crowd! You know, I thought I heard talking. But this? This is just precious.”

A grinning jackrabbit bounced in, ears flopping as he casually strolled toward the others. His bright yellow teeth gleamed under the lights, but his eyes were void—flat digital screens displaying something just short of emotion.

“Oh great,” Trevor muttered. “A clown.”

“You wound me,” The figure said with a theatrical clutch of his chest. “I’m a rabbit, not a clown. I entertain myself, not you. You can call me Jax, my title says I'm The Ultimate Trickster.”

William didn’t flinch as the rabbit walked right up to him and leaned in.

“Say, you look like the kinda guy who'd build places like this. Creepy, sterilized, and full of trauma.”

“Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one,” William replied coldly. “You talk too much......yet you sound so familiar.....”

“Awwww, we’re gonna get along great.” Jax mocked albeit secretly William felt as if something was off with the rabbit.

The door opened again, but the mood changed instantly.

This time, it wasn’t manic.

It was quiet. Hollow.

Two figures entered—one tall, swathed in bandages and dirtied rags, carrying a scythe slung lazily over his back, the other a slight girl with pale blonde hair, hands folded tightly in front of her skirt. Her eyes were wide and distant, like staring through a window no one else could see.

They walked like a pair of ghosts—one dead on the inside, one always seconds from lashing out.

Zack’s eyes swept the group, then narrowed.

“...This some kinda joke? What the hell is this school supposed to be?”

The girl didn’t speak. She simply turned and looked up at him, standing close to him. Her presence clung to him like a shadow, as if the only safety she recognized was by his side.

“Zack...” she said softly.

He didn’t look at her, but his posture shifted.

“...Yeah,” he muttered. “I got a bad feeling too.”

Karma’s smirk twitched. “Awfully cozy pair. How sweet.”

The boy glared. “You wanna die first, redhead?”

William stepped forward, gaze flicking between them. “You two know each other?”

The boy's voice was hard. “We’ve been through worse than this. I'm Zack Foster, The Ultimate Reaper.”

Rachel blinked slowly. “But it always ends the same. I'm Rachel Gardner, The Ultimate Devotee”

The silence that followed was broken by the last footsteps.

They were light. Barely audible.

And then the final person entered.

A child stood in the doorway, not smiling, not frowning—just watching. Their red sweater was pristine. Their expression was flat. But their eyes—those gleaming, red, knowing eyes—scanned the group as if reading a menu.

“Oh,” The child spoke. “I was wondering when I’d stop being alone.”

Lucy took a step back immediately.

Gaston furrowed his brow. “What’s a kid doing here?”

“No,” Alastor whispered, smile faltering for the first time. “That is no child.”

They stepped into the room, and wherever their feet landed, it felt like the floor grew colder.

They stopped in front of William. Tilted their head.

“You’re the worst one here,” they said, as if reciting a fact.

William merely looked down at them.

“...And?”

Chara’s expression broke into the slightest smile. “You’ll be fun to watch. My name is Chara, The Ultimate Genocider.”

Then they turned and walked toward the bleachers, sitting alone—like a judge observing the first act.

Now sixteen.

The room had changed. Every person felt it. The walls were waiting.

Monika stepped forward, her voice steady but sharpened with unease. “That’s everyone. That’s the final number.”

“The tension’s different now,” Light said, almost to himself. “The atmosphere. It’s... expectant.”

“Like the curtain’s about to rise,” Alastor added, grin returning with grim delight.

William took a step forward, to the center of the gym.

His voice was calm, final.

“Whatever game we’ve been dragged into—this is where it begins.”

And then—click.

A sound echoed through the gym, like a speaker system being tapped on from afar.

The lights dimmed.

A single, childish giggle echoed from all around them.

And then the voice.

Playful. Cruel. Familiar.

“Puhuhu... Finally! Everyone’s here!”

The game had begun.

Chapter Text

The giggling swelled—bouncing off the gymnasium walls like a child laughing in a graveyard.

“Puhuhuhu… ahahahaha~!”

The lights above flickered—once, twice—and then snapped into full darkness, plunging the room into black. Someone cursed. Trevor, probably. Footsteps shuffled. The faint hum of a microphone flared.

And then the center of the gym lit up in a theatrical spotlight, casting shadows like stage curtains around the sixteen gathered.

From the center of that light… he appeared.

A black-and-white bear. One half innocent plush, the other a nightmarish smirk carved into cruelty. One red, glowing eye like a sniper’s laser. The other blank and mockingly cheerful. He waddled forward like a cartoon brought to life, hopping up onto a small podium set precisely center stage.

Monokuma.

“Good morning, students of Hope’s Peak Academy~!” he chirped, voice unnaturally high and far too gleeful for the graveyard tension in the room. “Or is it afternoon? Or maybe it’s… your eternal twilight! Puhuhu~!”

Everyone was dead silent. Even Jax, for once, had nothing to say.

“Now then! I bet you’re all just dying to know what’s going on, huh?” Monokuma continued, pacing like a demented stand-up comic. “You’ve woken up in a nice school, met some charming classmates, and I’m sure you’re wondering—why you? Why here? What’s the point of all this?”

His red eye gleamed.

“Well, let me tell you!”

The lights flared back on, revealing the gym in all its eerie emptiness… and the sealed metal doors at the back—now locked tight with industrial bolts.

“You are now officially students of Hope’s Peak Academy!” Monokuma announced. “But not just any Hope’s Peak! This is my very special version. A wonderful, closed-campus retreat where all your needs are met! You’ll live here forever and ever and ever!”

A beat of silence.

Then, Light stepped forward, voice low and cold. “What’s the catch?”

“Eeeheehee! Oh, smart cookie! Of course there’s a catch!” Monokuma cackled. “Because this isn’t just a school. It’s a killing game!”

No reaction. No screams. Just stares—icy, focused. Too many killers. Too few innocents.

“Killing... game?” Rachel echoed softly.

“That’s right!” Monokuma said, clapping his tiny paws. “In order to graduate and leave this lovely facility, all you have to do is commit murder! Kill one of your classmates! Simple, right?”

William's eyes narrowed.

“But,” Monokuma continued, raising one stubby finger, “you can’t just go around stabbing people willy-nilly! Nooo no no. You have to be clever about it! Because after a murder happens, there will be a Class Trial! Everyone will gather, investigate, debate, and try to figure out whodunit!”

“And if they guess right…” Monika said quietly.

“Then the blackened—that’s what we call the killer~—gets executed, and everyone else continues the game!” Monokuma chimed. “But if you manage to trick them… if they vote wrong… then you, the killer, walk free. And everyone else dies!”

Trevor growled. “You’re dead meat, you little freak.”

“Oh puhuhuhu… I wish you’d try, baldy.” Monokuma wagged his paw. “This place is wired up tighter than a nuke bunker. No escaping, no outside help, and no fighting me—I’m the Headmaster, after all!”

Frollo stepped forward now, cold fury in his eyes. “What unholy punishment is this mockery of a trial? Who grants you this authority?”

Monokuma beamed. “Funny you should ask, Judgey McBurnface. Because this game isn’t about redemption. This game is about truth. And entertainment! But mostly truth.”

He leapt onto the podium dramatically. “You see, every single one of you has something very special in common…”

Everyone leaned in slightly—some with dread, some with morbid curiosity.

Monokuma’s voice dropped to a delighted whisper.

“You’ve all killed before.”

The silence was so deep, it rang like church bells.

“Whether you did it for power,” he went on, pacing dramatically, “for revenge, for love, for survival, or just for fun… every one of you has taken a life.”

Zack’s grip on his scythe tightened.

Chara gave the faintest smile.

Lucy stared blankly, already reliving the blood.

Light said nothing—but his eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Some of you have killed one person. Some of you have killed hundreds,” Monokuma laughed. “But no matter how different your crimes, this place is where they all count. No more hiding behind ideals or excuses.”

He grinned wide.

“Now you're here. Equal. Monsters behind masks. The truth will come out—one corpse at a time~!”

Monika stepped forward, tone measured. “If we refuse to play?”

Monokuma tilted his head. “Then you’ll just rot here forever! There’s no food delivery. No help coming. The only escape is through blood. This is your new life! Embrace it!”

Rachel’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “...How many will die?”

Monokuma shrugged. “That’s up to you~!”

Then he turned to the group, bouncing once on his stubby legs.

“I suggest you all get acquainted with your living arrangements! Explore the dorms, meet your fellow murderers, and keep your eyes peeled! The first body... could drop any time~! Puhuhuhu... AHAHAHAHA!”

With that, the lights snapped off. His laugh echoed even after he vanished into the shadows.

Silence.

Then William turned slowly, voice like a knife through glass.

“It begins.”

Chapter Text

The gymnasium remained still in Monokuma’s wake—too still, like the world was waiting for someone to make the next move.

And that someone was Alastor.

He stood with one hand on his chin, that ever-present grin twitching as if barely able to contain something bubbling up inside him. His red eyes were narrowed slightly—focused, gleaming with suspicion. Then realization.

Then—

Laughter.

Explosive, gleeful, chest-deep laughter.

It came in waves, rich and manic, echoing unnaturally across the walls.

Everyone turned.

“AhahahAHAHA! Oh my—oh my stars! You’ve got to be joking!” Alastor wheezed, clutching his stomach. “No… NO! Oh, this is just too precious!”

Dr. Facilier stiffened, eyes narrowing like someone had aimed a gun at his back. “The hell are you cacklin’ about, demon?”

Alastor straightened, adjusting his tie, still chuckling.

“…Dr. Facilier,” he repeated, voice sliding from mocking to fondly condescending. “Why does that name sound so familiar…? Hmmm… Oh yes—because I know exactly who you are!”

Facilier’s teeth gritted beneath his smile. “I ain’t who you think, Radio.”

“Oh, but you are,” Alastor purred, taking slow steps toward him, his shadow trailing behind like a satisfied predator. “That voice. That sleazy drawl. That sultry, guttural groan when you’re losing your fifth game of poker in a row—I’d know it anywhere!”

“Alastor,” Monika cautioned, sensing something sharp under the theatrics.

Zack tilted his head. “Wait, they know each other?”

Alastor snapped his fingers and pointed with flourish. “Husk. That’s the name you used in the afterlife, wasn’t it?”

Facilier’s hands tensed.

“You!” he growled.

“Oh, don’t get shy now, darling,” Alastor sang. “That little gambling-addicted cat who sulked through the Hazbin corridors like a ghost with nowhere to haunt. How deliciously tragic.” He tilted his head. “But now you’re back in your original skin. Dr. Facilier. Oh ho ho ho…”

Facilier’s eyes flared.

“Watch your tongue, Radio Demon.”

Alastor’s grin widened. “What, still bitter about that little incident with the Shadow Spirits? What was it again? You made a deal you couldn’t keep, ran your mouth one too many times, and got dragged to Hell squealing like a hog.”

Facilier hissed, “You were there.”

Alastor bowed mockingly. “Indeed I was! Not as a participant—merely a witness. But I did find the entire spectacle rather… educational.”

Everyone around them froze.

Rachel clung to Zack’s arm again, sensing the crackling air. Jax’s ears perked up like radar. Even Trevor took a half-step back.

“You really were Husk?” Niko said, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been to Hell?”

Facilier’s usual smoothness was fraying at the edges. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Russian. Ain’t nothin’ to dig up there. Ain’t no ‘Husk’. That was just... what came after.”

Alastor laughed again, softer now. “Denial. Such a fragile little thread for someone who once walked with shadows. You should be thanking me. I helped put you there.”

“You set me up,” Facilier snapped, stepping forward now, hands trembling.

Alastor’s voice turned low and calm. “You set yourself up. You made the deal. You lost. You paid.”

“I was tricked.”

“No one tricks the spirits, old friend. And you know it.”

The tension grew suffocating.

“Wait,” Karma said, piecing it together. “Are you saying he was dead?”

Chara smiled faintly. “Not just dead. Doomed.”

Lucy stared at Facilier, her breathing unsteady. “That’s why your shadow moved like it had a mind of its own…”

Facilier spat to the side, voice like gravel now. “I clawed my way back from Hell. I made myself whole again. I ain’t anyone’s puppet no more.”

“And yet,” Alastor said, brushing imaginary dust from his coat, “here we are. In another prison. Another game. Just like old times.”

“You keep talkin’, I’ll make damn sure you don’t leave this one,” Facilier hissed, his voice dropping to a deathly low.

Alastor leaned in close—too close.

“Oh, my dear doctor… that’s the point.”

Dr. Facilier was getting more pissed until he realized something.

He tilted his head slightly—just slightly—and looked at Alastor with something sharper than rage.

Clarity.

Then, slowly... a smirk curled across his face.

"...Wait a minute,” he drawled, his voice regaining that sultry, velvet polish. “Now I see it…”

Alastor didn’t move. But his grin—so perfectly painted on—tightened by a fraction.

Facilier’s eyes glinted. “You’re not just here, Alastor. You’re stranded. Just like all of us.”

The room went still.

“I’ve been in contracts before,” the doctor continued, circling slowly now, pacing like a man who'd just found a winning card in his sleeve. “I’ve worn chains. And when I was that broken mess behind the bar—Husk, if you wanna call him that—you were my leash.”

Alastor remained silent.

“You twisted my soul up in strings, played me like your own little puppet show. Every drink I poured, every card I dealt—I was doin’ it for you.” Facilier’s voice dropped. “But now I don’t feel it anymore.”

He turned and looked Alastor dead in the eye.

“There ain’t no tether.”

Alastor’s crimson eyes flickered, just once.

Facilier grinned wider. “You’re not a demon anymore.”

A quiet gasp escaped Monika. Zack blinked. Karma’s grin twitched upward slightly.

Facilier stepped forward, confidence swelling.

“So who’s pullin’ your strings now, huh? Where’s all that smooth charm and reality-breaking razzle dazzle? All I see’s a snake in red clothin’, talkin’ big but sittin’ empty.”

Alastor’s head tilted, just slightly. That grin hadn’t moved, but his eyes...

They weren’t smiling.

“I remember the feelin’, you know,” Facilier murmured, his voice lower now. “That first moment—when the power ain’t there no more. When the shadows stop listenin’. When your voice don’t shake the walls, and the world don’t fear you.”

A beat of silence.

“...Feels like bein’ naked, don’t it? No power. No souls. You have NOTHING.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened.

And still, he said nothing.

But his fingers flexed ever so slightly, like a man holding himself back from playing a piano that had no keys left.

Facilier chuckled.

“Ain’t no Radio Demon here,” he said to the room now, voice theatrical. “Just Alastor. Just a washed-up little ghost with a microphone and a bad sense of fashion.”

A flicker of movement.

Alastor took a single step forward.

Facilier didn’t flinch.

And neither did Alastor’s voice, smooth as ever:

“Careful, dear Doctor… You're confusing my lack of power for a lack of danger.”

That chilled the air more than any scream could have.

Rachel lowered her eyes. Trevor clicked his tongue. Niko muttered something under his breath in Serbian. Chara? Still watching, expression unreadable, as always.

Facilier’s smirk remained, but his hands slowly slid into his pockets.

“Hmph. All I’m sayin’ is... now we’re on even ground.”

Alastor chuckled—just once.

“No,” he said, “Now we’re in the same graveyard.”

Chapter Text

Alastor’s expression flickered with gleeful mischief as he stood there, one foot tapping against the gym floor in delight. His eyes, like crimson spotlights, settled on a figure that had remained quiet through much of the unfolding chaos, tucked behind that ever-watchful stare and tight-lipped silence. William Afton. The man in purple.

Alastor tilted his head slightly, as if observing something rare—something exquisite.

“Wait a minute,” he said, his tone dipping into that dangerous musical cadence, that vintage broadcaster’s hum, like he were savoring every syllable. “Aren’t you the man who was behind the slaughter?”

The room stiffened.

Not everyone knew the name William Afton. Not yet. But the sudden intensity in Alastor’s voice drew attention like blood in a shark tank. Zack’s brow furrowed. Rachel’s small frame stiffened. Even Chara, emotionless and unreadable as ever, looked up from their vacant stare.

“Oh, but I’ve heard of you,” Alastor continued, taking a step forward, his cane tapping the floor with a theatrical clack. “The man behind the smiling mascot… the killer hiding behind a family business. I must say—I’m a massive fan of your work.”

William didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. His posture was calm, hands folded neatly behind his back, chin held high. He watched Alastor like someone watching a magician perform tricks they already knew the secret to.

“How you murdered those children, how you lured them away with the promise of fun and lights and laughter, only to end them like butchered cattle in your rotting hallways.” Alastor’s voice was almost breathless with enthusiasm. “And then—oh, then—the pièce de résistance! Getting yourself locked inside a springlock suit. Ohhh, how tragic. How… poetic.”

His eyes gleamed.

“How did it feel?” he asked, with the same curiosity one might ask how the first human felt touching fire. “The metal slicing through your body like claws of judgment, the gears crushing bone, the wet snap of your lungs as they collapsed under pressure. It must have been… glorious.”

Still, William remained still, silent—until Alastor’s gaze slid toward one particular corner of the room.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he said suddenly, more quietly now. “You’ve got children here too. Or close enough. Look at that one, the one in the striped shirt.”

His finger slowly rose, extending toward Chara.

“They can’t be older than… what? Twelve? Thirteen? And this one over here—” he gestured to Rachel “—barely able to look someone in the eye without flinching. Are you going to kill them next?”

He grinned wider than ever.

“For Remnant, perhaps?”

For a moment, the silence was suffocating.

Until William finally moved.

He laughed.

But it wasn’t loud or unhinged like Alastor’s. It was quiet. Controlled. Like a man who had made peace with himself long ago.

“The only regret I ever had…” William said slowly, clearly, his voice like the scraping of rusted metal down a chalkboard, “…was getting in that damn suit.”

There was no guilt. No shame. Just a quiet, deadly certainty behind his words, like everything he’d ever done had been calculated. Chosen. A strategy with known costs.

“But now I’m back,” he said, eyes lifting, glowing faintly under the light. “I always come back.”

Those words didn’t echo off the gym walls. They didn’t need to. They carved themselves into the room, left a stain behind like ink bleeding through paper.

And though Alastor grinned in reply, clapping slowly as if applauding the return of an old performer to center stage, someone else reacted more subtly.

Jax.

He’d been leaning against the bleachers, arms crossed lazily, that usual shit-eating grin plastered across his face like glue. The grinning rabbit, always a step ahead of mockery, always looking down on everyone like he was in on a joke no one else understood.

But at those words—“I always come back”—something in Jax changed.

His smile twitched.

Not much.

Just enough.

A split-second fracture, a barely perceptible drop in expression, as if someone had tugged on a string inside him and it had snapped. His eyes lost their glint for the briefest instant. His brows dipped—not in fear, but in something else.

Bitterness.

Then it was gone.

The grin returned, wider than ever, like a mask re-fastened. His arms remained crossed. He even gave a sarcastic chuckle.

“Yikes,” Jax muttered, “that’s one hell of a catchphrase. Real spooky. Like a Saturday morning cartoon villain who thinks he’s God.”

But William noticed.

His gaze, calm and calculated, flicked toward Jax and lingered. Something had cracked in the rabbit’s demeanor, and while the others missed it—some distracted by Alastor’s dramatics or Facilier’s brooding—William saw it clearly.

A flash of emotion.

A look of familiarity.

Like Jax knew something he shouldn’t.

He studied the rabbit’s face, that mocking leer and cocky tilt of the head, but underneath… there was something wrong. A chill, buried deep. A personal distaste. Not the playful antagonism Jax threw at everyone else.

It was specific.

But why?

William was sure he had never met him. He would’ve remembered someone like that—something like that. There was no record, no body, no child with a rabbit head that had slipped through his fingers. But that look… it wasn’t the look of a stranger.

Jax noticed the stare.

And didn’t break it.

He just leaned his head back and smiled wider, almost daring William to ask.

But William didn’t. Not yet.

He simply smiled back, ever so slightly.

A predator acknowledging another.

He’d find out soon enough.

He always did.

The game had begun, after all.

And he was very good at games.

Chapter Text

After the verbal clash between Alastor and William, the gym’s energy changed—no longer held by Monokuma’s artificial tension but by something organic. The undercurrents of suspicion, curiosity, recognition. For a room full of murderers and monsters, it was unsettling how quickly the group became aware that the most dangerous weapons present weren’t blades or powers—but personalities.

It started quietly.

“Alright,” Karma said, stepping forward, the heels of his shoes clicking against the gym floor as he lazily stuffed his hands into his blazer pockets, “can we take a second to just appreciate how absolutely messed up all of you are?”

His smirk was wide, but his eyes were narrowed—watching.

“We’ve got demons, serial killers, war criminals, haunted bar mascots and now apparently someone who murdered kids and stuffed himself into a metal coffin.”

He looked around and nodded mockingly.

“Fantastic.”

Light Yagami adjusted his tie slightly, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder. “You speak with such judgment, yet you’re no innocent.”

Karma turned his smirk toward Light. “And you’re no god.”

For the first time, Light’s expression shifted. Barely. But there was tension in his jaw now.

“I've heard about you,” Karma continued casually. “The perfect student, the genius, the justice fanatic. What was it they called you?” He snapped his fingers. “Kira.”

“You don’t know anything,” Light said coldly.

“I know you killed to shape the world,” Karma said with a shrug. “I just did it for fun.”

Light narrowed his eyes. “Then you’re no better than scum.”

“Maybe,” Karma replied, grinning wider, “but at least I’m honest about it.”

Lucy, who’d been standing just outside the edge of the conversation, tilted her head slightly. Her eyes were blank but watching. Always watching. She looked at Karma, then at Light. There was a brief twitch in her fingers, a muscle memory of something that no longer existed—those unseen arms that had once torn through flesh like paper. She felt them missing like phantom limbs.

“Talking doesn’t change anything,” Lucy said quietly. “We’re still locked in here.”

Rachel stood beside Zack, clutching the sleeve of his jacket like a lifeline. She looked up at Lucy with a hint of empathy—but didn’t speak. Zack stood protectively near her, jaw tight, but his eyes were scanning the rest of the group now, especially Alastor, William, and Facilier. Especially them.

“You’re all freaks,” Zack muttered. “But at least I know who I’d gut first.”

“Oh?” Alastor asked, perking up. “Do share, my charming little reaper.”

Zack smirked, cracking his knuckles. “Keep talking, and you’ll find out.”

Chara chuckled under their breath.

Jax, who had been quiet since the Afton outburst, leaned against the bleachers again, but his posture was off. Not relaxed. Too still. His grin was back, but it looked planted, like a sticker peeling at the edges.

“So…” Jax finally spoke up, tone sing-song and careless, “now that the child-murderer and the demon fanboy have had their moment, does anyone know where we’re supposed to sleep? Or do we just cuddle in here and play ‘Guess Who’s Gonna Stab Me First’?”

“Try me,” Trevor muttered, dragging his fingernail across the side of his bottle. “I’ll show you where to stick that smile.”

Jax barked a laugh, sudden and loud.

“There it is!” he cheered. “There’s the PTSD spice I needed. And here I thought you were gonna stay quiet and mysterious like Russian over there.”

Niko just gave him a look—cold, tired, worn.

“You think this is a joke?” Niko asked, voice low and lethal.

“No,” Jax said, still smiling. “I think you’re the joke. A sad, tired one. But still.”

William, still watching him, finally spoke again. “You don’t like me.”

Jax didn’t even flinch. “Took you long enough.”

William tilted his head. “Why?”

“I just don’t,” Jax replied, grin still in place, but his eyes betrayed something else. Something older. “Maybe I don’t like men in purple. Or maybe you remind me of something I’d rather put in the ground and forget.”

Everyone went quiet.

Alastor’s eyebrows rose.

William’s expression didn’t change. But his voice dropped a half-step colder.

“You’re hiding something.”

Jax let out a small scoff. “Oh, everyone’s hiding something, Bill. But don’t worry—you’ll find out mine around the same time I find out yours.”

He winked.

“But I promise, it won’t be pleasant.”

Monika, who had been watching all this with a tense kind of grace, stepped in finally. “We should focus on the important thing—how we don’t end up dead before we even find our rooms.”

“Agreed,” Light muttered.

Chara yawned.

“I like this group,” they said simply. “It’s going to fall apart beautifully.”

“You planning to be the one who breaks it?” Karma asked.

Chara shrugged. “Maybe I already did.”

Facilier snorted. “All y’all talk like you’re the stars of this little story. But remember—we ain’t the ones holdin’ the script.”

And somewhere—though no one could see it—they all felt it.

The cameras watching.

The game observing.

Waiting for the first mistake.

Waiting for blood.

The conversations had shifted—aggression becoming routine, sarcasm layered like armor, threats exchanged like pleasantries. But through it all, William Afton remained cold, composed, unbothered. The monster in purple. The man who had killed children and wore the title like a badge. The one who smiled when others flinched.

But then...

One voice pierced the noise.

Not loud. Not angry.

Just calm.

Sharp.

Pointed.

“All I will say is this...”

Jax was staring straight at him now. His grin was gone. Fully. No twitch. No games. No cartoonish deflection.

And what came out of his mouth next silenced the room.

“…Elizabeth’s death was on YOUR hands.”

The words didn’t echo.

They imploded.

And for the first time, William Afton froze.

Not an eye twitch.

Not a breath.

Still.

Every eye turned to him. Even Alastor’s grin slipped for a beat. Rachel’s head slowly tilted up. Zack furrowed his brow. Light and Karma shared a glance, reading the air like hunters sensing blood.

William’s pupils dilated—not from fear, not from guilt, but something deeper. Something raw.

Elizabeth.

The name hit like a cold nail driven into old bone.

His daughter.

The one child whose death he hadn’t intended.

The one soul that wasn’t part of the plan.

His jaw clenched.

Just slightly.

“…Where did you hear that name?” he asked, the edge in his voice suddenly dull, like a knife wrapped in velvet. Controlled. Barely.

Jax didn’t answer. He simply stared at him, unblinking, his usual sneer replaced by something that bordered on disgust.

Facilier squinted at Jax, studying him with a new lens.

Alastor slowly turned toward the rabbit. “Oho… what have you been hiding, dear Jax?”

Chara looked between them, something flickering behind their half-lidded eyes. Interest.

“...She followed you into the mouth of that machine,” Jax said softly, his voice now stripped of its usual mockery. “Didn't she? You made that thing. Circus Baby. You built it to kill. And she—what? Thought you wanted to show her something cool? Something safe?”

His voice got quieter.

“But you knew it was dangerous. And she died anyway.”

William didn’t blink.

His entire body was still. Like a statue. Like if he moved too suddenly, something inside him would collapse.

“That was…” he started, then stopped.

There was no cold arrogance now.

No self-satisfied smile.

Just a flicker of something none of them had seen before.

Not rage.

Not pride.

Something buried.

“I warned her not to go near it,” William said at last, his voice like gravel under a boot. “I told her it wasn’t ready. I told her...”

He stopped again. His fists were clenched at his sides now.

“She didn’t listen.”

“She was a child,” Jax snapped. “Your child. You were supposed to protect her.”

William looked at him. Really looked. And for just a moment, he didn’t see a laughing rabbit with a sadistic streak. He saw something else. Someone else.

Something was wrong with Jax. Something personal. He knew details he shouldn’t. Felt pain he shouldn’t.

And the worst part?

William didn’t know why.

“I’ve never met you before,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you?”

Jax smiled again. But this time it was hollow. A wall more than a weapon.

“Doesn’t matter who I am,” he said quietly. “Just matters what you did. And what’s coming next.”

The room was still holding its breath.

Trevor let out a low whistle.

“Well,” he muttered, “this is officially fucked.”

Monika placed a hand near her chest, breathing shallowly now, her own lines between reality and simulation bending uncomfortably. She glanced at Jax, then at William, calculating.

Light crossed his arms. “So the unshakable killer does have a fracture.”

Karma grinned. “And someone knew just where to hit.”

Alastor chuckled low and slow. “Oh, this is going to be entertaining.”

William didn’t respond.

He just turned.

And walked.

Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

But out of calculation.

He needed time.

Not to reflect.

But to understand.

Jax watched him go, his arms slowly uncrossing, fingers flexing once as if they wanted to grab something that was long since gone.

And then he laughed.

Quietly. Bitterly. Just once.

Then the smile returned.

Just like always.

No one spoke as they left the gym.

Not even Jax.

Sixteen killers walked down the corridors of Hope’s Peak in brittle silence, the overhead lights humming like a countdown. One by one, they peeled off from the group—some walking alone, others paired off in uncomfortable quiet. No one wanted to admit it, but the tension was different now. Not just from Monokuma’s sadism or the looming threat of death.

But from each other.

It wasn't just that someone might kill.

It was the reasons they might kill.

Their dorms were tucked away in a long hallway near the central courtyard, each door lined up in identical succession, names freshly printed in black plates beneath golden doorknobs. It looked polished, clean—deceptively normal.

A lie in wallpaper and drywall.

Each room was perfectly tailored to be neutral—bed, desk, wardrobe, personal bathroom, mirror, all eerily untouched. Not cozy. Not comforting. Just prepared.

Zack looked around the hallway and grunted. “Feels like a psych ward.”

Rachel was at his side, fingers curled tight in the sleeve of his coat. She hadn’t said a word since the gym.

“Sleep with one eye open,” Trevor muttered as he kicked open his door. “And don’t come knockin’ unless you brought vodka or bullets.”

“No one wants either from you,” Karma called after him, spinning the key to his own room around his finger.

Lucy entered hers without a word.

Niko stood in his doorway a moment too long before stepping inside. Like he was expecting a trap. Like there should have been one.

Alastor lingered in the hallway, fingers trailing against the walls, humming a quiet tune from another century. He smiled at the door marked with his name, as though seeing it for the first time in a very long time.

Facilier watched him from two doors down, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Monika stood still for several seconds before her room, her hand brushing the handle but never quite gripping it. Something about being alone right now didn’t sit right. Not here. Not yet.

“Strange,” she murmured to herself. “This place wants to feel safe… but it’s too perfect. Too much symmetry. There’s no personality. No fingerprints.”

Chara, already half inside their room, looked back at her. “That’s the point.”

Monika turned. “What?”

Chara smiled without warmth. “No fingerprints means no identity. Makes it easier to erase people when they die.”

Then they vanished behind their door.

Jax hadn’t moved.

He stood in front of his room, arms crossed, staring at the wood like it owed him something. His smile had returned, but it wasn’t settled. It wavered. Dipped.

And his eyes drifted.

To William Afton’s door.

The nameplate gleamed.

WILLIAM AFTON.

A clean, sanitized marker for a man who had lived in blood and rot.

Jax didn’t say a word. But the look in his eye was anything but neutral.

William, from the other end of the hall, opened his door and stepped inside without hesitation. Like he had already begun making plans. Like he had already decided that the room would be temporary. Just another cage to slip through.

Inside, his room was perfectly neat.

He liked neatness.

But his mind was already moving far beyond the walls.

He sat down, back perfectly straight, eyes cold and steady.

That name—Elizabeth—still echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, not like a wound but like a loose screw. Not pain.

Just... unfinished business.

And Jax?

That damn rabbit was more than he seemed.

William didn’t know why.

But he would.

The digital speakers in the dorm hallway crackled to life.

It was just past midnight.

A static hum pulsed through the floor tiles and walls, vibrating through each of the sixteen rooms. Some were asleep—lightly, fitfully, twitching with nightmares. Others were wide awake, staring into the ceiling as if waiting for the next twist.

They didn’t have to wait long.

“Puhuhuhuhu~! Attention, my delightful little deviants!”

Monokuma’s voice slithered through the academy like a virus. His gleeful tone cut through the silence like a scalpel.

“I hope everyone’s enjoying their first night at our cozy killing facility! Warm beds, clean sheets, no knife wounds—yet! Truly, a five-star experience! But don't get too comfortable, because starting tomorrow...”

He paused, theatrically.

“I’ll be introducing our very first motive!”

William, seated stiffly on his bed, opened his eyes.

Monika sat up in bed instantly, heart sinking.

Alastor chuckled softly to himself, humming a jazz tune beneath his breath.

Rachel buried her face deeper into her pillow. Zack stared at the ceiling, unmoving.

Facilier turned toward the speaker in the corner of his ceiling and sneered.

Monokuma’s voice softened—but that dangerous gleam never left it.

“Now now, before you get too nervous, let me explain! This time, I’m not dangling money, escape routes, or your deepest darkest secrets. No no no…”

He giggled.

“This time... I’m offering something much more toxic.”

A pause.

A perfect, soul-curdling beat of silence.

“Tomorrow, each of you will receive someone else’s greatest regret.”

Shock rippled through the rooms.

Not secrets.

Not sins.

Not lies.

But regret.

The one thing some of them hadn’t let themselves feel in years.

“Not your secrets. Not what you hide from others. But what you hide from yourself. The thing that haunts you in the dark, in the silence. That one moment you would do anything to undo. The biggest ‘what if’ you’ve ever lived with.”

“And guess what?” Monokuma laughed. “I won’t be giving your regret to you.”

“No no no, that’d be too easy.”

“I’ll be giving your biggest regret… to someone else.”

Somewhere, William Afton’s hand tightened on his wrist.

He felt it. Something cold creeping up the back of his spine.

“I’ll be randomly assigning your little regrets to one of your peers,” Monokuma continued, his tone saccharine. “And no, you won’t get to choose. You won’t even know who has yours… until tomorrow morning, when I’ll reveal who’s holding whose.”

“And the best part?” he sang. “You’ll be free to do whatever you want with it. Use it to bond. Use it to blackmail. Use it to kill.”

Silence again.

Then, a single cheerful note:

“Sweet dreams~!”

Click.

The speaker died.

But the damage lingered.

Somewhere, Niko Belic sat upright, his chest tight, the taste of war and betrayal thick on his tongue.

Facilier stood in his room, staring into his cracked mirror, the memory of a deal he never should’ve made burning behind his eyes.

Lucy clenched her fists beneath her sheets. Not rage. Not power. Just hurt.

Karma looked at his own reflection and said nothing.

Rachel sat quietly, heart aching at the memories of hospitals, knives, and a promise she had no right to ask for.

Chara simply lay on their bed, eyes wide open, smile faint.

“What a fun game.”

Trevor muttered something into his pillow about bullets and ghosts.

Alastor leaned against his wall, eyes closed, fingers tapping his armrest in rhythm. His smile was tight now. Not amused.

Just focused.

Jax… laughed once.

But only once.

Then his grin faded completely as he looked at the ceiling.

“I swear, if that bastard gets mine…”

William hadn’t moved.

He just sat.

Still.

Silent.

And for the first time, he began to wonder—

Whose regret would he receive?

And who would receive his?

Chapter Text

The cafeteria was quiet.

Too quiet.

The lighting was low, filtered through the slats of closed security shutters over the windows. Long tables lined the space, untouched trays resting on cold metal. The air carried the scent of synthetic food—sterile, pre-packaged, like even the nourishment here was artificial.

They entered one by one. Suspicious. Tired. Quiet.

Each of them found their name etched onto the back of a steel chair. Each of those chairs… held a sealed envelope. Black wax. Crimson paper. An eerie insignia that looked like a smiling bear’s skull—Monokuma’s perverse signature.

No one sat immediately.

They looked at the envelopes like bombs.

Then, the voice.

“Goooooood morning, my lovely little liabilities!”

Monokuma’s face flickered onto the monitor in the corner of the room, winking.

“Did everyone sleep well? No? Good! That means your subconscious is doing its job!”

He giggled maniacally.

“As promised, I’ve delivered to each of you someone else’s most precious, most painful, most delicious regret. Now, don’t get too excited. You don’t get your own—you get someone else’s. And today’s breakfast game is guessing who got whose!”

The screens flickered.

A rotating series of portraits snapped into place, matching each name to another.

The Motive Pairings

• William Afton → has Jax’s regret

• Jax → has Claude Frollo’s regret

• Claude Frollo → has Light Yagami’s regret

• Light Yagami → has Rachel Gardner’s regret

• Rachel Gardner → has Lucy’s regret

• Lucy → has Zack Foster’s regret

• Zack Foster → has Dr. Facilier’s regret

• Dr. Facilier → has Chara’s regret

• Chara → has Trevor Philips’s regret

• Trevor Philips → has Niko Belic’s regret

• Niko Belic → has Gaston’s regret

• Gaston → has Karma Akabane’s regret

• Karma Akabane → has Tomura Shigaraki’s regret

• Tomura Shigaraki → has Monika’s regret

• Monika → has Alastor’s regret

• Alastor → has William Afton’s regret

Monokuma beamed.

“Be sure to thank your mystery pen pals! You’re so close now. One read, one wrong word, one blood-soaked misunderstanding away from absolute chaos! Puhuhuhuhu!”

The monitors cut out.

Silence fell again.

Until...

William Afton broke it.

He had sat. Opened his envelope without hesitation.

His eyes scanned the page—clinical at first. Then slower. Then still.

There was no expression. No scoff. No sneer. Not even one of his cold, calculated smirks.

His face became a blank canvas, drained of all color, as if someone had peeled him open and scraped out the inside.

The page in his hand trembled slightly.

It never did that.

No one noticed at first—until Jax, still standing with his own envelope untouched, caught it.

Their eyes met.

And Jax whispered.

“…Fuck.”

William read on.

The regret was written in neutral, observational language—Monokuma’s hallmark of detachment. A short paragraph.

Subject: Jax
Regret: Causing the death of Evan Afton, his younger brother, by pushing him into the mouth of an animatronic during a birthday party.
Date: 1983.
Animatronic: Fredbear.
Known consequences: Brain death. Fatal springlock failure. Emotional collapse. Event tied to Subject’s identity as Michael Afton.

The words burned into William’s mind like brands.

Michael.

The name felt like rot, seeping into the cracks of his memories.

He remembered the maze-like corridors of that underground facility.

Elizabeth in the shell of Circus Baby, staring up at him with cold blue eyes and his own voice in her programming.

He remembered Henry’s voice on the final recording. Charlotte’s image in the glass. The children.

He remembered the final fire.

And he remembered the boy—the security guard—who had been working the final night. Who had brought the others back.

Who had always been there, watching, following his trail.

Who had suffered, over and over, through death, through rot, through metal and pain.

Who said nothing, but never stopped walking.

And now he saw him.

Across the table.

Jax.

Still smiling—but it was nothing like before. It was brittle. Masked. Hiding the pain, not indulging in the game.

Not anymore.

William didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

He just sat there, frozen, with everything breaking in his eyes.

Jax stood still too. Everyone else slowly sat, each opening their own envelope, some quicker than others.

Frollo frowned, reading his sheet, glancing up at Light. Light clenched his fist when he saw Rachel’s name. Rachel turned her head, pale, as she read Lucy’s past.

Lucy’s hands trembled as she looked at Zack.

Zack read Facilier’s name, his eye twitching.

Facilier read Chara’s.

Chara read Trevor’s with a soft, strange smile.

Trevor read Niko’s file and went very quiet.

Niko, reading Gaston’s, scoffed and muttered, “Figures.”

Gaston, who had Karma’s, sneered a bit, eyes darting at the red-haired teen with slight confusion.

Karma grinned when he saw Shigaraki’s name.

Shigaraki tensed when he saw Monika’s.

Monika didn’t flinch reading Alastor’s.

Alastor, reading William Afton’s, grinned sharply.

But none of it—not all the sin, not all the damage—compared to this.

To William Afton realizing who he had sat across from.

The son he thought had died.

The son he had destroyed.

The son who had walked into Hell and come back with the face of a clown.

Michael.

And now?

He was wearing rabbit ears.

Jax’s body was still, but his smile returned—crooked, bitter, and venomous. His teeth bared just enough to show it wasn’t for humor. It wasn’t playful. It was the smile of someone who had finally reached the moment they’d been waiting for, dreading, and burning for.

“What’s with the look?” he asked, eyes narrowed, voice low and sharp like shattered glass. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost…”

He let that linger in the air for a second.

“…Well. It’s probably because you have.”

Silence collapsed around the room like a bomb.

Monika froze with her envelope still halfway open. Alastor’s grin widened, but he said nothing for once. Rachel’s eyes darted between the two of them, frightened. Zack shifted, sensing something dangerous.

“But hey,” Jax continued, stepping slowly around the table, arms still crossed, smile growing ever more hollow, “look on the bright side. Now we’re trapped together. Like a family vacation. Father and son, under one roof again… isn’t that what you always wanted? No more running. No more hiding. Just you, me, and all those tiny lives you took, already finding their peace—”

He stopped, right in front of William.

Then, quietly.

“Hello… Father.”

William’s hands curled so tightly around the crumpled paper it tore.

His eyes slowly rose to meet Jax’s.

Dead.

Emotionless.

Burning.

And when he spoke, the ice was gone.

The venom was boiling.

“……Hello, Michael.”

It came like a curse.

Like a confession.

And then—his voice roared, low and seething.

“The one who pushed EVAN IN FREDBEAR’S MOUTH—”

The room jumped.

Zack’s eyes widened.

Light flinched.

“—BECAUSE YOU COULDN’T HANDLE NOT BEING SPECIAL?!”

William rose to his feet, the chair behind him screeching against the floor.

“YOU KILLED YOUR LITTLE BROTHER. MY YOUNGEST SON.”

Jax didn’t move. Not a twitch. His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes—those weren’t mocking anymore. They were hollow. A storm that had never stopped.

“I know,” he said softly.

“I see him every time I close my eyes.”

The cafeteria was suffocating.

“Don’t you dare talk to me about killing,” William growled, stepping closer, fists shaking. “You—You were just a boy. A child—”

“And you were a monster,” Jax snapped, stepping forward too now, inches from him. “You turned our house into a graveyard and expected us to call it a home.”

“You never listened—”

“I looked up to you,” Jax hissed. “I wanted to be like you.”

That made William freeze again. That word.

Wanted.

Past tense.

“I used to think you were brilliant. That there was something noble in the way you talked about science, and life, and legacy,” Jax spat. “But you were just another murderer in a suit. One who made kids disappear and called it progress.”

The silence was screaming.

Monokuma’s monitors flickered back on, silently.

No words.

Just watching.

William’s voice dropped, hoarse and cold. “I built that legacy for you.”

Jax stared at him.

“You built it on Evan’s corpse.”

No one spoke.

Not even the usually irreverent Karma.

Not even Trevor, who stood with a hand tightening around a chair, jaw set.

Alastor slowly leaned back in his seat, eyes glowing with amusement, but even he said nothing.

Finally, William turned away.

Not in shame.

But in strategy.

He said nothing more.

Just walked out of the cafeteria, the paper still clutched in his fist.

Jax stood there alone for a moment longer before turning away too.

No smile this time.

Just silence.

But everyone had heard it now.

The truth.

Michael Afton wasn’t dead.

He was here.

And William Afton?

Had just found the one ghost he couldn’t bury.

And for the first time in his life—

He wasn’t sure how to win.

Chapter Text

The storm had passed—at least for the moment.

The cafeteria slowly emptied, tension clinging to the walls like mold. But not everyone left. A few lingered—those who couldn’t shake the chill. Or those who were waiting for something else to break.

Dr. Facilier leaned against the wall near the monitor, arms crossed, fingers drumming rhythmically against his sleeve. He hadn’t touched his tray. His sharp eyes were locked not on the others, but the screen where Monokuma had vanished.

His voice came out low, inquisitive, laced with suspicion and dark velvet.

“Well now, that was a spectacle,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Got fathers and sons exposin’ themselves, old wounds reopenin’... but I got a real question.”

The room wasn’t quite empty.

Chara was still seated, arms folded on the table, face neutral—but their eyes locked onto the doctor the moment he spoke. Something subtle tightened in their posture.

Facilier looked up at the ceiling and tapped his cane once on the tile floor.

“You listenin’, puppet master?” he asked. “I know you’re always watchin’.”

The monitor crackled. Static burst briefly.

Then—Monokuma appeared.

The bear materialized on screen like a summoned spirit, one paw lazily twirling a microphone like a pendulum.

“Upupupu~! What’s this? The shadowman wants story time?”

Facilier’s smile was a half-step away from venom. “I just wanna know... while you were busy strippin’ folks of their powers and keepin’ things fair…”

He paused, tilting his head.

“Did you happen to remove Determination?”

Chara flinched.

No one else caught it—barely perceptible. But Facilier did. And Monokuma sure as hell did.

The bear blinked—once. Slowly.

Then his smile widened like a wound splitting open.

“Puhuhu... ohhh, you noticed.”

He leaned in close to the screen, voice suddenly low, oozing with malicious pride.

“Yup. That nasty little soul trait? All. Gone. I yanked Determination out like a bad tooth.”

He chuckled. “You’d be amazed what people carry around in them without even knowing it. Especially the ones who think they’re already dead inside.”

Chara stood.

Their chair scraped the floor just a bit too fast.

Monokuma tilted his head mockingly.

“Aw, what’s the matter, sweetheart? Feeling a little… mortal?”

Chara’s eyes darkened.

“That wasn’t yours to touch.”

“Oh please,” Monokuma barked with laughter, “you think you’re the first anomaly I’ve dealt with? I’m not letting anyone come back from the dead here. No save points. No resets. No ‘just kidding’ second chances.”

He leaned forward, red eye glowing.

“You die here, you stay dead.”

Chara didn’t speak.

But they were trembling.

Not with fear.

With rage.

Facilier’s grin spread slowly. “Well now… isn’t that somethin’.”

“Thanks for the confirmation, friend.”

Monokuma giggled again. “Glad to help~! After all, fair’s fair. And besides…”

He gestured wildly with his stubby arms.

“I already gave you a second chance just by bringing you freaks here in the first place.”

He winked at Chara.

“Some of you had no right to still exist.”

Click.

The screen went black.

Facilier turned his gaze toward Chara.

They were still standing. Still silent.

But the way their hands gripped the table—white-knuckled, fingers digging into the edge—told a different story.

Their voice, when it finally came, was barely audible.

“…He wasn’t supposed to be able to do that.”

Facilier said nothing.

Just smiled to himself and walked out, cane tapping in perfect rhythm.

The message was clear.

Everyone had been stripped bare.

And even the ones who’d once defied death itself...

Were finally trapped like the rest.

Chara remained still.

Stone still.

They stared at the floor, a low shadow cast across their face from the dim cafeteria lights. Their teeth pressed together just enough to make their jaw twitch. Their fingers gripped the table like they wanted to tear it out of the floor.

And behind them, the slow, deliberate tap of a cane echoed like a clock ticking down.

Dr. Facilier.

He stopped just a few paces away, casually adjusting his collar, never once looking remorseful. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself.

“Nothing personal, Chara,” he drawled, voice smooth as bourbon poured over a rusty nail. “But I ain’t lettin’ anyone get free handouts. Especially not from me.”

Chara’s head lifted slightly.

Facilier raised one hand and wagged a finger mockingly.

“See, I know your type. You walk soft, talk soft—but you’re packed tighter with body counts than a New Orleans mausoleum. Don’t think I didn’t feel the rot when I touched that envelope.” He nodded toward his pocket, where Chara’s regret still sat. “You ain’t remorseful. You’re rememberin’.”

The smile he gave was sly, cruel.

“And between all of us monsters, I’d wager you’ve got the most blood on your hands. More than Afton. More than the Demon over there. Hell—maybe even more than me.”

Chara said nothing. But their nails had begun scratching into the metal.

Facilier stepped forward again, tone dropping.

“You think that Determination of yours made you special? Made you a god? Naw. You were just another scared little brat with too much power and not enough conscience.”

His voice lowered further.

“And now? You ain’t got any of it left. No resets. No ‘SAVE’ file. No glitchy second chances.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to whisper it with venom.

“You’re human now, Chara. Just like the rest of us. And humans? Humans bleed.”

Silence.

Then…

Chara exhaled.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t shaky.

It was slow. Controlled.

Their hands released the table. They stood upright. And when they turned around—

They were smiling.

But it wasn’t childlike.

It wasn’t playful.

It was pure, surgical hate.

“Oh,” Chara said softly, “you’re absolutely right.”

Facilier raised a brow, just slightly.

“I did kill more people than anyone in this game,” they continued, voice eerily gentle. “I did things none of you have ever imagined. I was a god. I chose who lived, and I chose who died.”

They took one step toward him.

“And now I’m human.”

They tilted their head, eyes glowing faintly beneath the cafeteria’s flickering light.

“...You should be afraid of what I’ll do with that.”

Facilier blinked.

Then laughed.

Low and rich and dangerous.

“Well damn,” he said, stepping back, tapping his cane against the tile with slow amusement. “Looks like the gloves are off.”

Chara’s grin widened, just a hair.

And then they walked away—calmly, with hands in their pockets, humming something low under their breath.

A lullaby.

Facilier watched them go.

Still smiling.

Still watching.

Because the game was changing.

And not even the children were innocent anymore.

The cafeteria’s air had grown thick, sour with the tension left behind by Chara and Dr. Facilier’s venom-laced exchange. A few chairs still creaked as people shifted uncomfortably. Eyes flicked about the room—some cautious, others calculating.

And then, from the far side of the room, a voice rose. Calm. Cold. Righteous.

“I am just going to say…”

Everyone turned.

“…no one can replace God.”

Claude Frollo.

He stood now, perfectly upright, hands folded before him like a man delivering a sermon. His expression was as unshaken as ever—stern, composed—but there was a flicker of something buried in the rigidity of his jaw, in the weight of his words.

“Even I know this,” he said. “Anyone who thinks otherwise is foolish."

A few people blinked.

Karma tilted his head slightly, then looked across the table toward Light Yagami.

Light, mid-sip from a lukewarm cup of coffee, froze. His gaze flicked—fast, sharp—toward Frollo, and narrowed.

He knew.

Frollo had read his regret.

There was no mistake. The pairings had been announced. Claude Frollo had seen his greatest regret.

And now he was speaking.

But not just speaking. Judging.

The room shifted its attention like a spotlight following a predator.

Frollo’s eyes never left Light.

“I’ve seen men twist righteousness into power. I’ve seen them burn the world trying to become divine. And always—always—it ends the same way. With ashes. With ruin. With damnation.”

He turned slightly, his voice never rising above its controlled, sermon-like cadence.

“I don’t care what justification you once had. Whether it was criminals, evil, justice… it does not matter. No man may cast himself as God and expect salvation. That path ends in destruction.”

Light stood slowly, eyes burning with quiet fury, his composure beginning to crack.

"You speak as though you understand," he said flatly, voice calm on the surface but venom beneath. "But you don't. You've never carried the weight of saving the world on your back. You’ve never made real sacrifices. You judged from pews and pulpits—I acted."

Frollo didn’t blink.

“God acts,” he said. “You? You were just a boy with a notebook and a fantasy.”

Light's hands clenched at his sides.

Zack gave a low whistle. “And I thought I had anger issues.”

Monika watched carefully, eyes flicking from Light to Frollo. She remembered her own regret, the things she’d done thinking it was love, thinking it was purpose. And now she saw the same sickness here: twisted purpose, poisoned by ego.

Chara, who had returned to lean against the wall, gave a half-smile. “So,” they muttered, “that’s what happens when zealots read each other’s sins.”

Gaston crossed his arms. “All this talk of gods and devils. I don’t care who thinks they’re what. Just don’t get in my way.”

Light stepped forward now, slowly, his gaze locked on Frollo.

“I did what I had to do. The world was dying in rot, and I offered order. You read my regret? Good. Then know this—” he leaned in slightly “—I don’t regret being Kira. I only regret I was caught before I could finish.”

Frollo’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s why you’ll die here,” he said without malice. “Not by my hand. But by your own hubris.”

Then, he turned and left the cafeteria without another word.

Light watched him go, teeth clenched, the fury in his eyes now eclipsed only by something more dangerous:

Conviction.

William watched all of it.

So did Alastor.

So did Monokuma, from behind the screen—though he made no sound.

But everyone understood what had just happened.

Claude Frollo had spoken.

And in doing so, he had dragged Light Yagami’s deepest wound into the daylight.

And Light Yagami had not denied it.

He had owned it.

And now?

He would have to live with it.

Or kill to make sure no one else ever did.

Chapter Text

The academy’s loudspeakers crackled to life after the morning’s chaos. Monokuma’s chipper voice rang out like a grinning plague.

“Free Time begins now, kiddies! That means you’re free to explore, bond, snoop, spy, maybe even plan a little bloodshed! Just remember—friendships are temporary. Murders? Permanent! Upupupu!”

Click. Silence.

But it wasn’t silence.

It was footsteps.

Doors unlocking. Bodies moving. Pieces shifting across the board.

CLAUDE FROLLO & GASTON — Sanctimony and Arrogance

The grand chapel-turned-meditation room was empty except for two towering presences standing near the altar: Claude Frollo and Gaston. The former stood rigid, hands clasped as he glared up at the stained-glass window of a sword-wielding angel. Gaston, meanwhile, leaned against a pew, arms crossed and looking bored.

“You’ve been glaring at that glass angel like it insulted your hairline,” Gaston said, flexing slightly.

“It is a false idol,” Frollo muttered. “As false as your pride.”

Gaston scoffed. “And here I thought you’d be fun to talk to.”

“You are a creature of impulse,” Frollo snapped, eyes narrowing. “If you were born in my time, you’d have been flogged for your arrogance.”

“And yet here we are. Trapped in a killing game. No priests. No villagers. Just you, me, and sixteen freaks.” Gaston smirked. “You’re not God’s hand here, Judge. You’re just another piece on the board.”

Frollo stared hard at him, then turned back toward the glass.

“…I’ll pray for your soul.”

“Don’t bother,” Gaston said, already walking off. “It’s the one muscle I don’t plan on flexing.”

NIKO & TREVOR — Survivors and Shells

The gym’s weapons closet was empty, save for broken mop handles and long-forgotten sports gear. Niko leaned against the wall, cleaning his fingernails with a piece of broken plastic. Trevor sat on a bench, hunched over, eyes shadowed.

“You’re military,” Trevor muttered. “I can tell.”

“Not anymore,” Niko said flatly. “Now I’m just tired.”

Trevor looked up at him. “So why’re you still breathing?”

Niko looked at him, dead-eyed. “Because people like us don’t get to die easy.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Finally, Niko asked, “You ever lose someone who didn’t deserve it?”

Trevor grunted. “Only the ones that did.”

They both nodded.

MONIKA & LUCY — The Girl Who Saw Too Much and the Girl Who Felt Nothing

The music room was dim, the piano untouched. Monika sat on the edge of the bench, fingers hovering over the keys but never playing. Lucy stood by the door, silent, arms wrapped around herself.

“Do you like music?” Monika asked gently.

Lucy didn’t answer at first.

Then—“It makes the pain stop. Sometimes.”

Monika’s hands lowered. “I understand. I really do.”

Lucy looked at her, curious. “You talk like you’re used to controlling everything.”

Monika smiled faintly. “I was. Once.”

Lucy stepped closer. “But you don’t control anything here.”

Monika nodded.

“That’s why I’m terrified.”

They sat in silence. No music. Just understanding.

SHIGARAKI & CHARA — Decay and Resetlessness

In the laundry room, a single machine churned. Shigaraki leaned against it, eyes red and twitching. Chara stood beside the detergent shelf, arms crossed.

“You seem calm,” Shigaraki muttered. “For someone who lost their power.”

“You seem bitter,” Chara replied, “for someone who never had any real control.”

Shigaraki laughed once. “You think I wanted this?”

Chara shrugged. “I think we’re both what happens when children get broken too many times.”

He looked at them. They looked back.

“Would you kill again?” he asked.

“Yes,” Chara said without hesitation.

Shigaraki grinned.

“…Good.”

ALASTOR & DR. FACILIER — Demons and Debt

The theater was dim, red curtains hanging heavy as velvet sins. Alastor stood center stage, arms wide, basking in imaginary applause. Facilier watched from a front-row seat, arms folded.

“You always needed an audience,” Facilier muttered.

“And you always needed power,” Alastor purred. “Funny how we both ended up here without either.”

Facilier stood, walking to the edge of the stage.

“I know you, Radio. You don’t smile like that without hiding something ugly underneath.”

Alastor’s grin didn’t falter. “And you don’t carry a cane unless you’re hiding a limp.”

They stared at each other.

Neither blinked.

Neither bowed.

RACHEL & ZACK — The Broken and the Bound

In the infirmary, Rachel sat quietly, staring out the window that showed nothing but metal shutters. Zack was sprawled out on a cot, one arm behind his head.

“You alright, Rach?” he asked without looking.

Rachel nodded slowly.

“I don’t like it here,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Zack muttered. “Feels like hell, just quieter.”

She turned to him. “You won’t leave me, right?”

Zack looked at her now, frowning.

“…Never.”

She smiled faintly.

For a moment, that was enough.

WILLIAM & JAX — The Father and the Ghost

Their dorm hallway was quiet.

Jax leaned against the wall across from William’s door, arms folded. He looked up as the door cracked open.

“You read it?” he asked flatly.

William didn’t respond at first.

Then, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Jax laughed once. Bitter. “Oh, you mean back when I had a face and a name? Before you burned all of it to the ground?”

William stepped forward.

“I didn’t know.”

“You never wanted to know.”

A long silence.

“I’m not sorry,” William said at last.

“Neither am I,” Jax replied.

But they didn’t walk away.

LIGHT & KARMA — Justice and Chaos

The library was silent, save for the flipping of pages.

Light sat at a table, reading. Karma leaned on the back of the chair beside him, spinning a pen.

“You regret not finishing your plan, huh?” Karma asked casually.

Light didn’t look up. “And you? No regrets at all?”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty. I just like mine better.”

Light closed his book.

“You enjoy pain?”

Karma smiled. “Only if it’s yours.”

Light smiled back.

Then returned to reading.

Across Hope’s Peak, the pieces drifted.

Enemies became wary allies. Allies became strange mirrors.

And in the silence, everyone was learning something:

No one was coming to save them.

Chapter Text

Alastor had always hated monotony.

Even hell, in all its chaos, could become dull when repetition settled in. And now, trapped in a pristine cage with some of the most twisted minds he’d ever had the misfortune—or pleasure—of encountering, boredom was the one thing gnawing at him more than the threat of death.

So naturally, he decided to throw a party.

Why?

Because it amused him.

He didn’t announce it with flair or formality. One by one, invitations appeared under doors—slips of parchment, written in perfect cursive with an ink that smelled faintly of sulfur and wine. “Tonight. The Ballroom. Attendance mandatory. Attire: Survive.”

And strangely… everyone came.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the unspoken urge to see who would crack first. But by midnight, all sixteen had gathered in the grand ballroom—an over-decorated mess of velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, and flickering gold sconces that made the whole place feel like a theater on the verge of catching fire.

Music played softly from an old phonograph in the corner. The tune was warped, jazz slowed to just a notch too low, giving it an eerie, half-dead charm.

Alastor stood in the center, smiling wide, arms open like a preacher welcoming his flock.

“Now, now, my delightful deviants,” he chirped. “I thought a bit of… indulgence was in order. Let us raise a glass to madness, mischief, and the slow march to murder!”

The tables were lined with food—strangely well-prepared, considering their environment. Roasted meats, fruit platters, desserts that looked like they’d been lifted straight out of a wedding spread. And of course—drinks. Sparkling wines. Mixed cocktails. Bottles of something sharp and amber.

But before anyone touched anything, Jax was already at the bar, arms crossed, one foot tapping against the floor.

He poured a glass, sniffed it, then dipped his gloved finger into the liquid and tasted it. He narrowed his eyes, grabbed another bottle, did the same. Everyone watched him, the grin gone, replaced with rare focus.

William watched him especially closely.

After several minutes, Jax stepped away from the bar.

“They’re clean,” he muttered. “No poison. Nothing weird. He actually just… made a party.”

Alastor beamed, eyes wide.

“Of course I did. What kind of host would I be if I killed the guests before dessert?”

Trevor scoffed. “This whole thing smells like a setup.”

“Then don’t eat,” Karma shrugged, already helping himself to a slice of pie. “More for me.”

Light lingered near the back, sipping a glass of wine without much thought, his eyes scanning the room, always calculating. Frollo refused the drinks entirely, arms crossed in disapproval, standing near the wall like a disapproving gargoyle.

Monika smiled politely, clutching a wine glass but never actually drinking. She stayed close to the center of the room, near Lucy, who quietly stood at the edge of the table, her plate untouched.

Rachel sat beside Zack, picking at grapes, barely speaking. Zack didn’t trust any of it, not the food, not the music, not the host—but he stayed because Rachel stayed.

Niko sat in the corner, eating slowly, drinking slower.

Facilier spun his glass idly between his fingers, smiling faintly, but his eyes never left Alastor.

Chara moved like a ghost through the party, not speaking, not smiling, just… watching. Especially Shigaraki, who sat with a drink in hand, nails tapping the glass as if he were itching to break it in half.

Gaston flexed and laughed too loudly. Trevor flipped him off.

And then there was William.

He didn’t eat. Didn’t drink.

He just watched.

Mostly Jax.

Jax, who kept smirking and laughing with that same twisted edge, who raised a toast to “the most dysfunctional group of psychos ever shoved in a room,” who looked like he’d forgotten the weight of his file—but William could see it.

He could see the tension in the boy’s shoulders. The bitterness lingering just behind the eyes.

And Jax noticed him too.

They didn’t speak.

But they both knew.

Alastor clinked his glass against the air, laughing.

“Now, now, everyone! Drink deep! Laugh long! Because soon enough… someone will bleed. And wouldn’t you rather have a full stomach before the screaming starts?”

No one replied.

But they stayed.

All sixteen.

And for the first time since they’d arrived—no threats. No deaths.

Just sixteen killers, drinking in a ballroom, waiting for the inevitable.

Because it was coming.

They all knew that.

The party was just a pause.

A breath before the plunge.

The ballroom had all the ambiance of a crumbling cabaret resurrected for the damned. Crystal chandeliers flickered above in warped light, casting elongated shadows across the gleaming, polished floor. Laughter echoed, some genuine, some forced. Music played just below distortion. Glasses clinked. Food was sampled. Eyes met—and dodged.

There was no killing tonight. Atleast they all hoped so. 

But that didn’t mean no damage was done.

LIGHT & RACHEL — Glass Walls and Ghost Words

Near the far end of the room, away from the laughter and glowing chandeliers, Light Yagami stood near one of the arched, sealed windows, a half-full wine glass in hand. Rachel Gardner approached with quiet steps, stopping beside him without speaking.

They stood in silence for a moment.

Light was the first to speak.

“You don’t belong here.”

Rachel blinked once, looking up at him.

“You think I’m innocent?” she asked softly.

“No,” Light replied, “I think you’re honest. And that’s dangerous in a place like this.”

She turned to face him. “You’re the one who wanted to be a god.”

Light didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were on the distorted reflection in the glass—his own face, just slightly warped. Tired. Angry.

“I tried to change the world,” he said. “That was my mistake. The world doesn’t want change. It wants control.”

Rachel looked down at her untouched wine.

“Evan wanted control,” she murmured. “So did my parents. So did the ones who made me.”

Light looked at her then. Her eyes were distant, not afraid.

“I don’t think I belong here either,” she said finally. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, Light gave a small nod of respect.

“Good.”

LUCY & SHIGARAKI — Quiet Monsters

In the corner of the ballroom, surrounded by shadows and untouched wine, Lucy stood beside Tomura Shigaraki. Neither had moved in minutes.

“You haven’t said anything,” Lucy said softly.

Shigaraki didn’t look at her.

“I don’t like parties.”

Lucy nodded. “I don’t like people.”

He cracked a smile.

“…Maybe you’re the only person I understand here.”

She looked at him, eyes blank but gentle. “You’re angry.”

“I’m always angry,” he muttered. “But I don’t know what to do with it now. Without my power, I can’t break anything.”

Lucy tilted her head slightly.

“You can still break people,” she whispered. “You just have to talk to them first.”

For a second, Shigaraki actually laughed. It was hoarse. Hollow. But real.

“You’re worse than me.”

Lucy didn’t smile.

“I know.”

FROLLO & WILLIAM — Judgment Day

Frollo stood alone near the bar, arms behind his back, eyes scanning the crowd like a preacher watching sinners dance around a bonfire. William Afton approached slowly, drink untouched in his hand.

“Claude.”

Frollo turned his head.

“William.”

A long silence passed between them.

“I expected hell to be more fire and less flair,” Frollo muttered, eyeing Alastor across the room.

William sipped his drink. “This isn’t hell. This is a mirror.”

Frollo looked at him then, studying him like one might a strange artifact.

“You speak as if you’re comfortable with your sins.”

“I am my sins,” William replied.

Frollo’s face didn’t change.

“And yet you fear your son.”

William’s fingers clenched. Just slightly.

Frollo stepped closer, voice low and firm.

“You may not fear God. But I assure you—you will fear consequence.”

William didn’t respond.

Because he already did.

JAX & KARMA — Anarchy Meets Precision

Karma Akabane leaned against a pillar, idly twirling a toothpick between his fingers, eyes locked on Jax who was skipping stones into the punch bowl—or attempting to, and failing miserably.

“You’re a weird one,” Karma said.

Jax twirled dramatically. “You’re a boring one.”

Karma grinned. “You think you’re unpredictable?”

“I know I am,” Jax replied, teeth sharp. “You’re the kind who smiles while planning which artery to cut first. Me? I do it without planning.”

“And you think that makes you dangerous?”

“It makes me fun.”

Karma stepped closer, tilting his head.

“I bet you used to cry alone in the dark.”

Jax’s grin faltered just slightly.

“…Only when the power went out.”

Karma smiled wider.

“Figured.”

NIKO & DR. FACILIER — Ghosts and Guns

Niko sat at a poker table set for decoration, shuffling cards. Facilier appeared beside him like smoke.

“You play?”

“I win,” Niko replied.

Facilier chuckled. “Ain’t the same thing.”

Niko dealt two cards.

“You cheat?”

“I survive.”

They played two hands in silence. Niko won both.

Facilier grinned.

“You been through war, haven’t ya?”

Niko sipped his drink.

“You ever walk out of a graveyard and wish you stayed in it?”

Facilier raised a brow.

“Every day.”

TREVOR & ZACK — Psycho Therapy

Zack and Trevor sat on overturned barrels, sharing a stolen flask neither would admit wasn’t spiked.

“You kill for a reason?” Zack asked.

“Because I can,” Trevor replied.

Zack grunted. “Fair.”

Trevor looked at him.

“You don’t seem like the kind who waits for permission.”

Zack smirked. “You don’t seem like the kind who waits for anything.”

They clinked the flask together.

Then drank in silence.

CHARA & ALASTOR — The God That Laughed

Alastor spun lazily on a barstool, swirling a drink he didn’t sip. Chara sat across from him, legs dangling.

“You’re not afraid,” Chara said.

“I’ve already died,” Alastor replied.

“That didn’t stop me.”

Alastor chuckled. “You wanted to end the world. I merely wanted to see how far it could be pushed before it asked to be ended.”

Chara tilted their head.

“We’re not that different.”

Alastor smiled wider.

“We will be when the blood hits the floor.”

GASTON & MONIKA — Beauty and the Boor

Monika stood near the snack table, observing quietly. Gaston strutted over, drink in one hand, flexing.

“You know, you’re the only one here worth protecting.”

Monika blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, look at you. All alone. Beautiful. You need someone strong.”

Monika smiled.

“Oh, I agree.”

Gaston brightened. “You do?”

Then Monika grabbed a spoon, used it to perfectly balance her wine glass on his shoulder, and walked away without another word.

The glass stayed upright.

Gaston stared, stunned.

“...Was that a rejection or a party trick?”

Chapter Text

The morning arrived without mercy.

Hope’s Peak’s lights flickered on at the stroke of seven like a cruel imitation of sunrise. The dorms unlocked with their usual clunk, the mechanical hiss of the hydraulic seals releasing. The halls were silent, but not peacefully so—there was an unease in the stillness, like the building itself was waiting for something.

William Afton was already awake.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. His mind had been replaying every interaction, every word, especially the letter that had been slid under his door the night before.

But this morning, something caught his attention.

There—on the tiled floor just outside his dorm door—a smear of red.

It wasn’t much at first. Just a thin streak. It could’ve been paint, rust, even dried wine from the party. But his instincts screamed otherwise.

He followed it.

It wasn’t a spill. It was a trail. Thin lines that curved like fingers dragged along the floor. Drops scattered at intervals. It led down the hallway. Past Monika’s room. Past his son’s.

He wasn’t alone for long.

Jax stepped out of his room, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You seein’ this crap?” he asked, tone somewhere between amused and annoyed. “We already got our creepy hallway event and it’s not even breakfast?”

William didn’t respond. He just kept walking, eyes narrowing as the trail grew thicker.

Then Monika stepped out, her face pale, hair disheveled but alert. Her eyes fell on the trail instantly.

“Is that… blood?”

They followed it together.

It ended in front of Trevor Philips’s door.

The handle was smeared red. Thick lines of it dragged underneath.

William reached for it, hesitating just briefly. His fingers brushed the cold metal.

He opened the door.

Inside, the lights were dim.

Trevor lay sprawled across his mattress, shirtless, arm hanging off the edge of the bed, a half-empty bottle of something foul-smelling still clutched in his hand. His chest rose and fell, slow but steady. Alive.

The room stank of alcohol and stale sweat. And—

Blood.

No. Not blood.

William stepped closer and touched the thick red smear across Trevor’s chest, streaked down his stomach and across the mattress.

He sniffed his fingers.

Ketchup.

“...You’ve gotta be kidding,” Jax muttered. “He passed out drunk and rolled in his damn condiments?”

Monika pinched the bridge of her nose. “I thought this was a murder.”

Then—

DING-DONG-BING-BONG!

“A body has been discovered!” Monokuma’s voice erupted, giddy and shrill, echoing through the building.

“You’re shitting me,” Jax muttered. “He’s right there. Alive. Smelling like rotisserie sadness.”

But William wasn’t looking at Trevor anymore.

He was looking at something else.

Just visible, partially obscured behind the side of the bed… was a lock of red hair.

William’s face hardened.

“Get back,” he said, suddenly cold, stepping forward and yanking the sheet down—

Karma Akabane.

Lying on the floor.

Eyes wide open.

Neck bent at an unnatural angle.

A pool of real blood congealing beneath his head.

His signature red hair darkened and matted with it.

There was no smile on his face.

There was no mocking line.

Just—

Stillness.

Monika let out a sharp gasp and staggered back.

Jax blinked once. Twice. Then, slowly, his grin dropped into silence.

William didn’t move.

He simply stared.

“Karma Akabane has been found dead,” Monokuma announced cheerfully over the speakers. “Let the investigation begin! Upupupu!~”

And with that…

The killing game had finally begun.