Nagito Shinomiya was born under a sky weeping with acid rain, into a world that had long since abandoned the concept of "fairness." To the Enclaves, he was a ghost with a genius-level IQ and a body that betrayed him at every turn. His immune system was a civil war; his nervous system, a frayed wire. The doctors called it a "systemic confluence of idiopathic failures." Nagito called it Tuesday.
On the fourth day, he reached for his datapad. His fingers, trembling and blue at the tips, began to move. He did not write a story of fracture or decay. He wrote a single sentence. nagito shinomiya
The crisis broke him more completely than any physical ailment ever had. He stopped writing. He stopped smiling. He stared at the ceiling of his sterile room for seventy-two hours, listening to the hum of the life-support machines that were the only things keeping his fragile engine running. Nagito Shinomiya was born under a sky weeping