He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was familiar now. The ornate wooden design. The golden trim on the edge. The way sunlight poured through the nearby curtains just right.
Day One. Again.
Makoto didn't move.
Not his head.
Not his arms.
Not even his eyes.
He laid in the bed like a corpse that forgot to die.
"Rem, Rem, look. Our guest is drooling in his sleep. Maybe he's a pervert after all."
"Ram, Ram, you might be right. He's giving off 'closet weirdo' energy."
Voices.
He heard them.
They stabbed like ice picks.
He wanted to respond—something light, something sarcastic—but nothing came out. His lips were dry. His throat felt choked.
His mind was screaming.
Petra's smile. Her voice.
That little laugh when he called her Petra-chan.
The way her hand reached toward him right before—
Makoto squeezed his eyes shut.
The image was burned in. Her body twitching. Her blood splattered. That final smile. That fucking smile.
"Hey, are you alright?" Ram leaned in, actually concerned for once.
Makoto didn't reply.
His body moved on its own, rolling off the bed, legs collapsing the second they hit the floor.
He hit the wooden boards face-first and didn't even flinch.
"Whoa—" Rem caught him by the shoulders. "Are you feeling sick? Is it fever?"
Makoto just stared at the floor. Breathing slow. Controlled. Like he was counting seconds between thoughts to avoid thinking at all.
"…Nothing's wrong," he muttered. His voice was dry. Robotic.
Ram narrowed her eyes.
"That's not how people answer when they wake up drooling on the floor."
Makoto chuckled.
It was a broken sound. It didn't even reach his eyes.
He pushed himself up slowly and stumbled toward the corner of the room.
"Where are you going?"
Makoto paused.
Where was he going?
He didn't know. Not anymore.
There was no plan.
No idea how to save anyone.
Roswaal would betray them again.
Elsa would tear them apart.
The village would burn.
Petra would die.
And he'd come back here, over and over, with nothing to show for it.
And no one would remember.
He stared at his own hands. Trembling.
They felt sticky with blood that wasn't there. He saw phantom red stains soaking through his fingers.
Rem reached toward him again, maybe to check his pulse.
Makoto flinched violently.
"Don't touch me!"
That came out louder than he meant.
The room fell silent.
Ram and Rem shared a look.
"Please…" he whispered. "Just give me… a moment."
He walked past them, slowly, dragging his feet. His slippers scuffed on the wood.
The hallway was quiet. Every step felt heavier. Like his legs were sinking through invisible mud.
He passed a window and looked out toward the direction of the village.
The trees were still. The sun was shining.
Peaceful.
It made him want to vomit.
Because he knew what was coming.
Because no one else did.
⸻
He made it to the mansion library. He didn't even remember walking there.
He just blinked, and suddenly, he was standing at the door.
He didn't knock.
He just opened it.
"You again." Beatrice's voice rang from within. Her usual annoyed tone. "Do you even know what knocking is, I suppose?"
Makoto stood still in the doorway.
Beatrice looked up from her book—and paused.
There was something off.
His eyes.
The way he stood. Like a puppet without strings.
"You don't have anything to say, I suppose?" she asked.
"…No," he replied.
A long silence passed between them.
Makoto took one step inside. Then another. And another. He stopped at the edge of the carpet, looking down at it like it was the only solid thing left in his world.
"I tried," he whispered.
Beatrice blinked. "…Huh?"
Makoto's voice cracked. Just once.
"I tried to save everyone. I really did. I thought if I warned people, if I got stronger, if I planned harder… it would work. I really thought it would work."
Beatrice frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
Makoto kept talking like he didn't hear her.
"The kids. Petra. She smiled. Even when she was dying. She smiled at me. And I… I was so useless I couldn't do anything but watch her bleed out. She died thinking I'd protect her. She was just a kid. Just a kid."
His breath caught in his throat.
"…I held her hand once. She gave me a ribbon." He choked out a small, bitter laugh. "I kept it in my pocket. Doesn't matter now, right? Gone. Like everything else. Like everyone else."
Beatrice was silent.
Makoto looked up at her, dead-eyed.
"You don't remember," he said. "None of you do."
Beatrice slowly rose from her seat.
"Makoto… what's wrong with you?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing's wrong. This is just how people look after they fail to save everyone they love. This is what happens when you carry every death on your back and wake up to find it undone. Like it never happened. Like they never mattered."
His hands trembled again. He bit down on his own lip until it bled.
Beatrice stepped closer.
"Makoto. You're—"
"I'm tired." His voice broke. "I don't want to do this anymore."
Silence.
His shoulders sagged. His knees gave out. He sank to the floor, arms hanging limp at his sides.
He didn't sob. He didn't scream.
He just sat there. Empty.
Beatrice didn't speak. She only looked at him. Her book was closed. Forgotten.
She didn't understand what he meant.
But for the first time, she realized—
Makoto Naegi wasn't okay.