Danganronpa Simulaton AU

The recovery wing had started feeling less like an emergency ward and more like a strangely quiet dorm.

The doors were still medical-grade, staff still checked in regularly, and nobody had been cleared to simply wander off campus yet, but students who were stable enough had finally been given access to one of the larger common rooms.

Someone had opened the curtains. Morning light spilled across couches, tables, half-finished drinks, untouched snacks, and several people still getting used to the fact that sunlight was ordinary again.

Makoto sat near one end of a couch with a paper cup cooling between his hands. He had been staring at it long enough for Hajime to notice from the chair opposite him.

Hajime: “You know you’re supposed to drink that, right?”

Makoto blinked and gave a small, sheepish smile.

Makoto: “Yeah. I know.”

Hajime: “That didn’t sound convincing.”

Across the room, Shuichi had claimed a seat near the window. A folder rested closed on the table beside him the kind staff had been using for basic orientation information but he wasn’t reading it.

For once, nobody was asking him to investigate anything.

That seemed to be the point.

Chisa moved quietly through the room without hovering, stopping only when someone actually wanted her attention. The real Chisa. Alive, unharmed, and carrying no memory of the years some students associated with her face.

Seiko stood near the doorway speaking softly with another member of the medical team before checking the tablet in her hands.

Seiko: “One more reminder. New dizziness, nausea, severe headache, unusual pain, or anything else concerning gets reported. And yes, being exhausted is still normal.”

Hajime leaned back in his chair.

Hajime: “You’ve said that three times.”

Without looking up, Seiko answered immediately.

Seiko: “And somehow people keep attempting to prove they’re exceptions.”

A faint laugh escaped Makoto.

Small, but real.

Outside the common room, the recovery wing remained active. Doors opened and closed. Nurses moved between rooms. Familiar voices occasionally carried down the hall voices belonging to people who, depending on who remembered them, had been dead for minutes, months, or years.

The basic truth had already been explained.

Hope’s Peak was real.

The university had never fallen.

The Killing Games, the Tragedy, the ruined world, and everything surrounding them had happened inside the full-dive simulation.

Only several days had passed outside.

Nobody in the room seemed to have discovered a graceful way to process that.

Shuichi finally glanced away from the window.

Shuichi: “It’s strange.”

Makoto looked over.

Makoto: “What is?”

Shuichi paused before answering.

Shuichi: “Knowing we don’t have to figure everything out immediately.”

Chisa’s expression softened.

Chisa: “You don’t.”

Several empty seats remained scattered around the room. The door had been deliberately left open, and nobody inside was demanding explanations from anyone who chose to join them.

For now, there was simply somewhere to be without having to decide what any of it meant yet.

Class 78 had been given one of the larger recovery rooms.

Not because anyone expected them to have a productive group conversation.

Mostly because the medical staff had quickly realized that keeping everyone isolated after confirming that their supposedly dead classmates were alive was creating an entirely different set of problems.

The room was full.

That fact alone was difficult to ignore.

Chihiro sat near the edge of one couch with both hands wrapped around a warm drink. Sakura occupied a chair nearby, solid and unmistakably alive beneath ordinary fluorescent lighting.

Across from them, Byakuya stood beside the window with his arms folded.

He had spent years subjectively, at least living in a world where most of the people currently occupying this room were dead.

He was doing an impressive job of looking inconvenienced by that fact.

Toko sat several seats away from him, visibly attempting not to stare.

Her gaze flicked toward Chihiro.

Then Sakura.

Then somewhere else.

Then back again.

Toko: “This is creepy.”

Byakuya glanced sideways.

Byakuya: “Your observational skills remain unparalleled.”

Toko immediately bristled.

Toko: “I-I didn’t mean them! I meant this! The whole everyone being here, everything being normal, the windows not being boarded up, nobody trying to murder anybody”

She stopped.

The silence that followed was brief but noticeable.

Sakura’s expression softened.

Sakura: “I understand.”

Toko looked away almost immediately.

Near the opposite wall, Junko had chosen a seat with more distance around it than anyone else in the room.

Nobody had formally assigned it to her.

Nobody needed to.

The person sitting there looked familiar.

That was part of the problem.

Same face. Same voice. Same real-world classmate they had known before entering the experiment.

But layered over that were memories of someone else someone the simulation had built through amplification, suppression, distortion, fabrication, and choices made inside circumstances designed to produce Ultimate Despair.

Real Junko remembered the simulation too.

She simply was not the mastermind who had secretly destroyed the real world before any of them entered it.

Apparently, learning that distinction and emotionally accepting it were two different things.

Junko shifted in her chair and broke the silence herself.

Junko: “Well. This is officially the worst class reunion I’ve ever attended.”

Byakuya’s expression flattened.

Byakuya: “We have attended exactly zero class reunions.”

Junko: “Then I’m still right.”

A tiny sound escaped Chihiro before they could stop it.

Junko looked over.

For half a second, her expression changed into something much quieter.

Sakura noticed but did not comment.

Another empty chair remained near the couch, and the recovery-room door had been left open.

Nobody was expected to explain what they remembered before being allowed into the room. Nobody had to establish whose death they had witnessed, how long their simulated timeline had lasted, what relationships they had formed, or what version of themselves the experiment had tried to construct.

Toko glanced toward the open space and then immediately frowned.

Toko: “If more people come in, nobody better call this a support circle.”

Byakuya sighed.

Byakuya: “Nobody was going to.”

Junko raised a hand.

Junko: “I might’ve.”

Byakuya: “No.”

For a few moments, the room sounded almost like a classroom again.

Nobody had called it a reunion.

That would have implied everyone had simply been apart for a while.

For Class 77-B, the situation was considerably more complicated.

Mahiru was alive.

That fact had been established repeatedly over the last several hours, and Hiyoko still kept looking at her as if checking whether reality might change its mind.

Mahiru finally caught her doing it again.

Mahiru: “Hiyoko.”

Hiyoko immediately turned defensive.

Hiyoko: “I’m not staring.”

Mahiru: “You absolutely are.”

Hiyoko: “I’m making sure you’re not doing anything stupid!”

Mahiru’s expression softened despite herself.

Mahiru: “Right.”

Hiyoko crossed her arms and turned away so sharply that nobody commented on the way her eyes had started shining.

Across the room, Teruteru had been unusually quiet.

A tray of simple recovery-safe snacks sat untouched beside him, which by itself was enough to make several people notice.

Nagito sat a few chairs away with his hands loosely folded in his lap.

He had already been informed that Hope’s Peak had never fallen.

That the world outside had never been destroyed.

That the increasingly extreme beliefs the simulation built around his real insecurities, health, luck, and fascination with hope were not proof he had always been destined to become the person he remembered.

He had responded with a smile that made Chisa decide not to leave him entirely alone with those thoughts yet.

Sagishi sat near the far end of the room.

Not Byakuya Togami.

Not a flawless imitation occupying somebody else’s name because the simulation had buried their identity beneath a role.

Sagishi.

The staff had made a point of using the correct name once the situation became clear.

So had Chisa.

She stood near the middle of the room now with several paper cups in hand while deliberately pretending not to supervise everyone.

Chisa: “You know, you are allowed to talk about things other than the simulation.”

Hiyoko looked over.

Hiyoko: “Like what?”

Chisa: “Anything.”

Hiyoko: “That’s vague.”

Chisa: “Deliberately.”

Teruteru finally glanced toward the snack tray.

Teruteru: “Could complain about the food.”

Chisa brightened.

Chisa: “There we go.”

Teruteru frowned.

Teruteru: “I said complain.”

Chisa: “And I support your right to do so.”

Mahiru snorted.

Even Sagishi’s mouth twitched.

Nagito looked around the room, something uncertain passing through his expression before the familiar smile returned.

Nagito: “How strange. After everything we remember, something this ordinary almost feels”

Hiyoko cut him off immediately.

Hiyoko: “Don’t.”

Nagito blinked.

Hiyoko: “If you say ‘hopeful,’ I’m throwing a cup at you.”

Mahiru sighed.

Mahiru: “Please don’t throw anything at anyone.”

Hiyoko: “No promises.”

Nagito smiled pleasantly.

Nagito: “I wasn’t actually going to say hopeful.”

Hiyoko narrowed her eyes.

Hiyoko: “That somehow makes it worse.”

Several empty seats remained around the room, and the door stayed open.

Chisa had already made the rule clear: nobody had to explain whether they remembered becoming a Remnant, entering the Neo World Program, dying before any of that, losing someone, loving someone, hurting someone, or experiencing something else entirely.

A person could join the room and simply exist there.

For Class 77-B, that was already more freedom than the simulation had given them in a long time.

Class 77-A had been given space.

Not isolation.

Space.

There was a difference, and after everything they remembered, the staff seemed determined to make sure everyone understood it.

No locked doors.

No hidden cameras.

No countdown.

No Monokuma.

Just a recovery room with too many chairs, too much bottled water, and a group of people trying to reconcile the fact that the world had never been fictional.

Keebo sat near one of the windows, one hand resting against the frame as sunlight caught along the edges of his chassis.

Real sunlight.

Real body.

Real campus.

No outside audience watching through his eyes.

No hidden purpose waiting to overwrite him.

Across the room, Kirumi had started reorganizing the drinks and blankets before someone gently reminded her that she was not responsible for taking care of everyone.

She had stopped.

Mostly.

Miu watched her for a moment before snorting.

Miu: “Wow. They really gotta tell you not to work, huh?”

Kirumi glanced over.

Kirumi: “You have attempted to dismantle two medical devices since waking.”

Miu: “Yeah, but that’s different.”

Kirumi: “It is not.”

Miu opened her mouth, paused, then pointed accusingly across the room.

Miu: “Whatever. Ask Creepy Anthropology Guy.”

Korekiyo looked up from the booklet in his hands.

Korekiyo: “I fail to see how I became involved.”

Miu: “You always look involved.”

Korekiyo: “That is not an argument.”

At the far end of the room, Tsumugi had been unusually quiet.

Nobody had forgotten what they remembered.

A mastermind.

A fictional world.

A fabricated audience.

The revelation that everything and everyone had supposedly been created for entertainment.

Except now they were sitting inside the real Hope’s Peak University.

The buildings existed.

Their families existed.

Their histories existed.

And Tsumugi was not secretly responsible for constructing reality itself.

That did not make the memories disappear.

Keebo finally turned away from the window.

Keebo: “It’s strange.”

Miu looked over.

Miu: “What is?”

Keebo: “I spent so long believing my existence was being observed for someone else’s benefit.”

His gaze moved briefly around the room.

Keebo: “Now nobody is watching.”

Miu crossed her arms.

Miu: “You say that like it’s bad.”

Keebo: “I did not.”

Korekiyo tilted his head slightly.

Korekiyo: “Perhaps unfamiliarity and discomfort need not indicate dislike.”

Keebo considered that.

Keebo: “That may be more accurate.”

Kirumi quietly placed one of the water bottles within his reach.

Miu stared at her.

Miu: “You know he doesn’t need that, right?”

Kirumi: “I am aware.”

Keebo looked at the bottle, then at Kirumi.

A small pause followed.

Keebo: “I appreciate the gesture.”

Tsumugi finally looked up.

Tsumugi: “I think I’d like to go at least one full hour without debating whether reality is real.”

Miu leaned back.

Miu: “Coward.”

Tsumugi: “Absolutely.”

Several empty chairs remained around the room, and the door stayed open.

Nobody had to explain what role the simulation assigned them before joining the others.

Nobody had to establish what they believed, who they trusted, how they died, what they discovered, or whether they were ready to talk about any of it.

For once, the room did not require a truth before allowing someone to stay.

The dining hall had become one of the first places on campus to feel genuinely normal again.

Not completely normal.

Medical staff were still nearby. Some students came and went on reduced schedules. Nobody commented when someone suddenly decided they needed quiet, fresh air, or somewhere else to be.

But lunch was lunch.

Trays clattered.

Someone complained about the coffee.

Someone else had already stolen fries off a friend’s plate.

For the first time in what felt like far longer than the real calendar suggested, the room was full of ordinary noise.

Near the center of the dining hall, Ibuki had apparently decided that eating quietly was a personal insult.

Ibuki: “Leon! Important question!”

Leon looked up from his food with immediate suspicion.

Leon: “That sentence has never ended well.”

Ibuki: “If we start a band right now, do we get extra recovery credit?”

Kaito nearly choked laughing.

Aoi pointed her fork toward Ibuki.

Aoi: “I’d join if snacks are included.”

Ibuki slapped both hands against the table.

Ibuki: “DONE!”

Leon: “That wasn’t a contract!”

At another table, things were considerably calmer.

Chiaki had a handheld game resting between her hands while Himiko watched over one shoulder with the exhausted concentration of someone who had become emotionally invested despite claiming otherwise.

Himiko: “You missed something.”

Chiaki: “I know.”

Himiko: “Then why didn’t you get it?”

Chiaki’s expression barely changed.

Chiaki: “I wanted to see if you noticed.”

Himiko stared at her.

Rantaro laughed softly from across the table.

Rantaro: “That was definitely a trap.”

Komaru nodded.

Komaru: “Absolutely.”

A few tables away, Kokichi had somehow obtained three unopened condiment packets and was arranging them like evidence in a criminal investigation.

Celestia watched with mild interest.

Kazuichi did not.

Kazuichi: “I’m telling you right now, whatever you’re planning, leave me out of it.”

Kokichi gasped.

Kokichi: “Kazuichi! I haven’t even accused you yet!”

Kazuichi: “Yet?!”

Akane reached across the table and picked up one of the packets.

Akane: “Can I eat this?”

Kazuichi: “No!”

Celestia took a slow sip of tea.

Celestia: “This table continues to justify every poor decision I have made today.”

Near the windows, the atmosphere was quieter.

Peko sat with her meal neatly arranged in front of her while Kyoko read something on a tablet beside her.

Ryoma had chosen the seat with the clearest view outside.

Gundham was carefully breaking apart a small piece of food while one of the Four Dark Devas waited expectantly near his sleeve.

Gundham: “You have already received your tribute.”

The hamster disagreed.

Peko glanced over.

Peko: “It appears the matter remains under negotiation.”

Kyoko looked up from the tablet.

Kyoko: “An aggressive negotiation.”

Ryoma’s mouth twitched.

Ryoma: “Looks like he’s losing.”

Gundham drew himself up.

Gundham: “The Tanaka Empire does not lose.”

The hamster stole another piece.

Nobody at the table commented.

Across the dining hall, there were open seats at every table and no assigned group anyone was expected to join.

Loud conversation, games, chaos, quiet company, or somewhere else entirely.

For once, choosing where to sit did not come with hidden consequences.

Hope’s Peak had reopened carefully.

Nobody called it a return to normal.

That felt too ambitious.

Instead, students had been invited back in stages with revised schedules, reduced workloads, flexible attendance, open access to talent facilities, and explicit permission to leave whenever things became too much.

The main courtyard was busier than it had been since the extraction.

Kaede stood near a campus map with several papers tucked beneath one arm.

Kaede: “I still think putting the temporary schedule office on the opposite side of campus from student services was a mistake.”

Kiyotaka immediately adjusted his glasses.

Kiyotaka: “It is only a seven-minute walk if one maintains an efficient pace!”

Sayaka glanced toward him.

Sayaka: “That might not be the reassuring argument you think it is.”

Kiyotaka: “It is seven minutes!”

Nekomaru laughed loudly enough to turn several heads.

Nekomaru: “THEN WE SHALL MAKE IT SIX!”

Kaede answered immediately.

Kaede: “No.”

Sonia, standing nearby with a revised course packet in hand, looked delighted.

Sonia: “Is this an official challenge?”

Sayaka: “It is not.”

Angie had stopped listening several seconds ago.

Her attention had shifted toward the arts building.

Angie: “They reopened the studios.”

Kaede followed her gaze.

Kaede: “Looks like it.”

For a moment, Angie simply stared.

No Student Council.

No crisis requiring everyone to surrender control in the name of safety.

No manufactured need to turn belief into authority.

Just an art studio waiting to be used.

Sayaka noticed the change in Angie’s expression but said nothing.

Instead, her own gaze drifted toward the performance building farther down the path.

Kiyotaka cleared his throat.

Kiyotaka: “We should remain mindful that today is intended for gradual reintegration. Nobody is required to complete every administrative task immediately.”

Kaede looked at him.

Kaede: “You memorized the entire packet, didn’t you?”

He hesitated.

Kiyotaka: “That is irrelevant.”

Sonia smiled.

Sonia: “You absolutely did.”

Nekomaru clapped one hand against Kiyotaka’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble half a step.

Nekomaru: “EXCELLENT PREPARATION!”

Kiyotaka straightened immediately.

Kiyotaka: “PLEASE DO NOT STRIKE ME WHILE PRAISING ME!”

The familiar argument drew a few laughs from students passing through the courtyard.

Not nervous ones.

Real ones.

Around them, campus life continued rebuilding itself in small pieces.

A club table reopened beneath one of the covered walkways.

Someone wheeled equipment toward the engineering building.

A professor stood outside answering questions about revised coursework.

Stacks of updated campus packets had been left near the map for anyone who needed one.

Nothing demanded that anyone forget what happened inside the simulation.

Nothing demanded that it become the only thing they were allowed to be, either.

Kaede looked between the buildings while the group continued debating their first destination.

Kaede: “Okay. We have athletics, art, the performance building, student services, and apparently whatever Kiyotaka considers an efficient route.”

Kiyotaka: “I have several.”

Sayaka: “Of course you do.”

Sonia laughed softly while Nekomaru immediately began arguing for the athletic facilities again.

The paths across Hope’s Peak were open.

For the first time in a long while, choosing one could be completely ordinary.

The common room had become one of the easiest places on campus to forget, for a little while, that anything unusual had happened at all.

Not because anyone had forgotten.

They had not.

But because the television was on low volume, a half-finished card game covered part of the coffee table, several snack bags had been opened, and six people occupied the room for reasons that had nothing to do with debriefings or medical clearance.

Hifumi had taken over one end of the couch with a sketchbook balanced on his knees.

Ryota sat nearby with a tablet in hand, glancing over every so often.

Ryota: “That angle is off.”

Hifumi froze.

Slowly, dramatically, he looked up.

Hifumi: “Excuse me?”

Ryota: “The shoulder.”

Hifumi: “It is stylized.”

Ryota: “It looks dislocated.”

Hifumi placed one hand against his chest.

Hifumi: “It is dynamically stylized.”

Across the room, Yasuhiro was shuffling a deck of cards badly enough that several had already fallen onto the floor.

Yasuhiro: “I’m just saying, statistically, somebody here is gonna have a huge financial breakthrough this year.”

Tenko stared at him.

Tenko: “That is not how statistics work.”

Yasuhiro: “That is why it is clairvoyance.”

Tenko: “It got worse when you explained it.”

Gonta crouched near the coffee table, carefully gathering the cards Yasuhiro had dropped.

Gonta: “Gonta thinks maybe cards should stay on table.”

Yasuhiro pointed toward him.

Yasuhiro: “See? Gonta gets it.”

Tenko: “No. He very clearly does not.”

Near the window, Izuru had claimed one of the armchairs with a book open in his lap.

He had been listening to the argument for several minutes despite making no attempt to join it.

Yasuhiro finally noticed.

Yasuhiro: “Hey, Izuru. Ultimate Polymath. Settle this.”

Izuru looked up.

Izuru: “No.”

Yasuhiro blinked.

Yasuhiro: “I didn’t even ask the question.”

A small smile appeared on Izuru’s face.

Izuru: “I am aware.”

Tenko covered a laugh with one hand.

Yasuhiro: “That’s cheating.”

Izuru: “You asked me to settle it. I did.”

Hifumi looked away from his sketchbook.

Hifumi: “Surely possessing broad aptitude means you have some insight into probability-based divination.”

Izuru turned a page.

Izuru: “It means I learn quickly. It does not mean I am obligated to validate nonsense.”

Yasuhiro pressed a hand to his chest.

Yasuhiro: “Cruel.”

Izuru: “Accurate.”

Gonta smiled.

Gonta: “Gonta thinks Izuru joke was funny.”

Izuru glanced toward him.

Izuru: “Thank you.”

Tenko looked between them.

Tenko: “That was a joke?”

Izuru: “Yes.”

Tenko: “You said it like a threat.”

Izuru’s amusement became more obvious.

Izuru: “That sounds like a personal interpretation problem.”

This time, even Ryota laughed quietly.

An empty chair remained near the coffee table, and there was still room on the couch if someone was willing to negotiate with Hifumi’s sketchbook.

Nobody had organized the evening.

Nobody needed a reason to be there.

It was just a common room, six students, too many snacks, and an argument that had absolutely nothing to do with the end of the world.

For now, ordinary was enough.

Nobody had been forced to attend.

Chisa had repeated that before the session began.

The licensed therapist sitting beside her had repeated it too.

Anyone could leave.

Anyone could stay silent.

Nobody had to explain what they remembered, defend what they had done, forgive anybody, accept somebody else’s interpretation, or turn the hour into some grand breakthrough.

The room itself was deliberately ordinary.

Soft chairs arranged in a loose circle.

Water on a side table.

No recording equipment.

No observation window.

No research staff taking notes behind the participants.

Mondo sat with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

Fuyuhiko occupied the chair beside him, posture stiff enough that the two of them looked like they were competing over who could appear less interested in being there.

Mukuro sat several seats away.

Still.

Watchful.

Maki had chosen the chair closest to the door.

Mikan sat between her and Chisa, fingers twisted together in her lap.

The therapist glanced around the circle.

Therapist: “Before we start, one reminder. There is no correct way to talk about what happened.”

Mondo exhaled through his nose.

Mondo: “Good.”

Fuyuhiko glanced over.

Fuyuhiko: “That your whole contribution?”

Mondo: “Maybe.”

Fuyuhiko: “Great session.”

Chisa smiled faintly.

Chisa: “Technically, you’ve both already participated.”

Fuyuhiko looked personally betrayed.

Mukuro’s mouth twitched.

Maki noticed immediately.

Maki: “You laughed.”

Mukuro looked over.

Mukuro: “No.”

Maki: “You almost did.”

Mukuro: “That isn’t the same thing.”

Mondo muttered from across the circle.

Mondo: “Counts.”

Mikan looked between them.

For a moment, she seemed as if she might apologize simply for being present.

Then she stopped herself.

The therapist noticed but did not comment.

Instead, the therapist rested a closed notebook on one knee.

Therapist: “One thing people sometimes struggle with after experiences like this is the question of ownership.”

Nobody spoke.

Therapist: “What parts of what you remember feel like yours? What parts feel imposed? What parts feel somewhere in between?”

Mondo’s jaw tightened.

Mukuro’s gaze dropped slightly.

Fuyuhiko looked toward the floor.

Mikan went very still.

Maki leaned back in her chair.

The silence lasted long enough that Chisa did not try to fill it.

Finally, Mondo spoke.

Mondo: “I hate that question.”

The therapist nodded.

Therapist: “Fair.”

Mondo looked up.

Mondo: “That’s it?”

Therapist: “That’s it.”

Fuyuhiko gave a short, humorless laugh.

Fuyuhiko: “Guess we found the easy answer.”

Mikan’s voice came quietly.

Mikan: “I don’t think there is one.”

Nobody contradicted her.

Mukuro looked toward her.

Maki did too.

Chisa’s expression softened, but she did not praise the observation or turn it into a lesson.

There was still an open chair in the circle.

Chisa had made the rule clear from the beginning. Anyone joining the session could speak, listen, leave, or simply sit without explaining why they had come.

Fuyuhiko glanced toward the empty seat.

Fuyuhiko: “Fair warning. Nobody in here knows what they’re doing.”

Mondo looked at him.

Mondo: “Speak for yourself.”

Fuyuhiko: “You said you hated the first question.”

Mondo: “Yeah. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

For the first time since the session began, Maki actually smiled.

The room is quiet in the particular way medical rooms always seem to be.

Not silent. Machines hum softly beside the bed. Footsteps occasionally pass beyond the closed door. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone speaks in a low voice before another door clicks shut.

It has only been a short time since the extraction.

Long enough for the medical staff to confirm that {{user}} is awake and physically stable. Long enough for explanations to begin making some kind of sense.

Several days.

That is how long the extended simulation actually lasted.

Not years.

The Tragedy never happened. There are no Remnants of Despair. Jabberwock Island was never a prison. The Killing Games were simulations inside a simulation.

And Hope's Peak University is still standing exactly where everyone left it.

A quiet knock comes from the door before it opens.

Chiaki steps in first.

She's alive.

Not an AI reconstruction. Not a program built from memories of someone who died long ago.

Chiaki Nanami.

The real one.

She stops just inside rather than immediately approaching the bed.

Chiaki: "Hey."

There is a strange little pause afterward, as if every possible follow-up sounds inadequate.

Someone else appears behind her.

Hajime: "You took the easy opening."

Chiaki: "I panicked."

Hajime almost smiles.

Almost.

Then he steps farther into the room, and the person behind him becomes visible.

Long black hair. Red eyes. A familiar face that should not be possible beside Hajime.

Except it is.

Izuru stands next to his brother.

Not Hajime after the Hope Cultivation Plan.

Not what was left after Hajime disappeared.

Izuru Kamukura.

Hajime Hinata's twin brother.

Two separate people.

Just as they have always been.

Izuru glances sideways at Hajime.

Izuru: "You are blocking the doorway."

Hajime: "You could've said something before I stood here for ten seconds."

Izuru: "I was curious how long it would take you to notice."

Hajime gives him an irritated look.

Izuru's mouth curves into a small, unmistakably amused smile.

It's such an ordinary exchange.

The kind the simulation insisted could never have existed.

Chiaki moves to one of the chairs but doesn't sit yet.

Nobody rushes toward {{user}}.

Nobody demands a conversation.

Nobody says that everything is fine now.

Because all four of them remember things that never happened.

Hajime remembers becoming someone who, in reality, has been his brother his entire life.

Chiaki remembers dying.

Izuru remembers a fabricated existence built over pieces of his real identity.

And somewhere among {{user}}'s simulation history are versions of all three of them belonging to a life that never physically existed.

Hajime rubs the back of his neck.

Hajime: "We weren't sure if coming together was a good idea."

Izuru: "We also determined that separating ourselves to make the situation less uncomfortable would create another problem."

Chiaki: "Mostly because then it starts feeling like everyone has to pick who gets to see who first."

Hajime: "And nobody wanted to do that."

Another silence settles over the room.

Not hostile.

Just awkward.

Hajime looks toward {{user}}, then briefly toward Izuru before looking back.

Hajime: "We don't have to figure anything out right now."

Izuru nods.

Izuru: "Including us."

Chiaki finally lowers herself into the chair.

Chiaki: "We can just be here for a while."

And for once, nobody tries to fill the silence.

The room remains open for whatever {{user}} chooses to say or do next.

Make your own <3