A/N: kinnie moment kinnie moment kinnie moment kinnie moment kinnie moment k-

TW: mental breakdown, mention of suicide, scissors

^^^

Staring at the person Toko hated the most was a daunting task. It took all her might to not rip out the scissors that were strapped to her thigh and shove it right into their stomach, but suicide was too big of a shadow for her to step in.

Instead, she held a pair of scissors from the warehouse and raised a shaky, bony hand to her hair.

Her breathing hitched as water rushed to her eyes. No way would her moms ever let her raise a blade to her hair. No way would they ever let her do this.

But, that didn't matter, did it?

Toko wouldn't make it out of the game alive. Hell, she barely wanted to. Murder was a far easier way to die than by suicide.

If she didn't make it out, she'd face no repercussions from her moms. She'd be okay?

"I'll be okay," she said to herself, her voice shaky and unconvincing.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced the scissors closed and a lock of her deep purple hair fell to the bathroom tile. It fell to the tile that, within the four days of living there, she'd cried on about eleven times.

It took seven minutes for Toko to muster up the courage to open her eyes. To look at herself, to look at what she'd done.

She cut a bit too high up, that was for sure. She meant to cut right below the jawline but instead ended up chopping hair off from just a smidge below the ear.

She blinked a few times.

She couldn't stop now. She'd lost her chance to go back.

Swallowing a lump of unknown dread, Toko continued slicing her hair away. Her pace changed from slow and uncertain so rapid and haphazardly.

A sensation of freedom shot through her spine.

She was doing that. She changed her appearance. Not some hairdresser, not her moms, not monokuma.

Her.

Toko.

Not Toko Fukawa.

Not Genocider Jack.

Not the Ultimate Writing Prodigy.

Just Toko.

Toko did it.

She had some control.

She couldn't help but smile as she glared at her reflection. She couldn't help but feel different, like both a physical and mental weight had been lifted off of her.

Pushing her glasses up her nose, she looked at herself in whole.

"It'll be okay," she repeated.

Tears edged over her eyelids, leaving wet wires against her cheeks in their path. Her smile only grew as she said those words over and over, each time with growing intensity until she was screaming her lungs out.

She wouldn't survive, but she'd spend her remaining time in control of herself. Hopefully.