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It was a far cry, Daimyon realised as much. He hoped that his acknowledgement of the explosive would abate the debate, for if Thomas truly possessed a powerful-enough substance, he could simply knock Marianne's door down during the Night of Carnage. Neither the poet nor anyone else would be able to stop him. There would be no reason for thinly-veiled threats, no reason to involve and risk making the better part of the group distrust him. Distrust meant lack of allies, lack of allies meant constant paranoia which lead clearly into a paralysing fear of death.

Thomas was a smart and devious man—that much was certain for the poet. One needed not to be a scientist to reach the conclusions he had just reached in the uneasy seconds of silence, which made him believe that the biomechanic had also reached at least this far in his thought process. Perhaps Daimyon was wrong in his initial assumption: perhaps Thomas needed the e-handbook for entirely different reasons. Before he had any time to ponder about other possibilities, however, the young man pressed the vial against Faith's chest, effectively trapping her. The Infinites could but watch. Daimyon, snapped out of his thoughts, let out an exasperated sigh: could Thomas just do whatever he pleased while they sat powerless?

The ultimatum was issued. If the poet did not deliver the late botanist's e-handbook, Thomas would hold Faith hostage until the Night of Carnage. As with any decent hostage situation, attempting to free her meant only a quicker and surer death by the explosive vial. The cherry on top was Monokuma's—who very audibly enjoyed the unfolding conflict—declaration that the person causing the substance to be released would be responsible for the destruction it caused.

Whereas before this he was an important part, now Daimyon became the linchpin of the whole situation. He was the only one with access to what Thomas, who had transformed into a villain before their eyes, coveted. The vault creature and Jezebel wasted no time in trying to convince him of their truth. Others, as he looked around, were all looking at him, some with dread, some with detachment. Either way, the ball was in the poet's court. The buck stopped here. Grave responsibility weighed on his shoulders for the first time, as he would have assuredly wrote down any similar occasion that had happened before.

It was a heightened feeling, but not the heroic kind he had imagined it to be. He had to make a decision where there was a lot he did not know: most crucially, just what were Thomas' reasons? What was he planning? How did he procure an explosive in this hospital; was it even an explosive? What if this was all...a bluff, or a test? All Daimyon had were bits and pieces of scattered information, with gaping voids of unknown dispersed between.

Familiar ground, one could call it.

[color=seagreen]“Very well, Thomas.”[/color] He broke the silence at last, making a step forward. The jitter in his legs was gone. He spoke slowly and articulated every word. [color=seagreen]“No one needs to be hurt. I will bring the notebook here. It is...not here with me now, as you can see. I will need to get to my room for it.”[/color]
After the first, uncertain step, he got into a brisk walk, heading straight for the exit. No one moved to intercept him, at least for now. He glanced back from the door, his gaze pointed at Denis.
[color=seagreen]“And I will do this myself. Worry not.”[/color]