[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][/center]
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[center][color=seagreen]So it begins again.
A game of wits to decide
Who's the enemy on our side.
And I ask: what then?

Lives on the line.
As one was taken, we will take
Another, to quench an ache.
And I ask: is that fine?

People come and go.
Nothing is constant but
The feeling of being shut.
And I ask: what do I know?

There's nothing to learn.
The door closes, the cycle
Continues. Until it's final.
And I ask: when will it be my turn?[/color]

—Daimyon Londe: Untitled, written at the time of the second trial.[/center]

Daimyon was part of the group that went to check out Mercy's room and on the way found a strange mask lying in the patient quarters corridor. Its appearance was rather unnerving, and the description Monokuma gave about it was downright chilling. A virus that turns its victims into a ‘mindless zombie’ in no more than a week? The prospect of having such a weapon in their midst, acquirable by a simple phone call terrified the poet, but he steeled himself and made notes about its effects to be referenced later.

That was their group's only meaningful find, however, and other Infinites were not too fruitful either. All in all, the short investigation yielded a few, seemingly disconnected clues that Daimyon could not piece together right away. He hoped that through collaborative review they could make sense of the chaos, and uncover the truth behind the mystery of the murder.

Else they might just all die.

[hr]
During the trial, Daimyon abandoned his diligent note-taking habit, and instead tried to pay attention to the information presented by the rest of the group. The poison was the first matter to be discussed in detail, and rightly so, but despite that, the poet could not get the mask out of his head. He had drawn a sketch of it which he was now looking at, along with a list of symptoms of the virus' progression.

[i]- Impaired senses, shambling
- Susceptibility to suggestions
- Mild, but worsening hallucinations[/i]

He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be affected by such a syndrome. As a poet he prided himself on his sharp senses that allowed him to gain different perspectives—he dreaded losing that edge even temporarily. The only condition that sounded worse than that was his free-flying soul being caged and enslaved to the desire of someone else. He had already deemed himself to be vulnerable enough to misdirection and he hated it; sometimes he felt he could not even trust himself. And the fact that the mask had already been used once, presumably with success, left him with little room to trust anyone else, either.

[color=seagreen]“Forgive me if I wander off the current topic, but...this mask leaves me restless,”[/color] he finally spoke up once Thomas had finished his questioning. [color=seagreen]“I have to assume there is an infected among us. Who is it? Do any of you feel anything...strange?”[/color]