Noel's affirmative, mutedly desperate answer should have been enough for the poet, but it was not. He kept his hand on the lever, clutching it tight, feeling it turn into immovable stone under his grip. He could not pull it. Why? The journalist was not that dear to him—dearer than many others, perhaps, but his condition made letting go of even closest friends a question of a good night's sleep and a few torn-out pages. Why did he feel ready, duty-bound even, to sentence an Infinite to death when they were squirming under the weight of revelation, and why was he so hesitant now when the guilty Infinite was begging to be sentenced?
He turned to Zachary: the man spoke with a kind of regret and despair that resonated with him. He seemed to be going through the exact same dilemma, too: how to pull a lever that must be pulled and yet was so difficult to pull. As much as he felt a sense of camaraderie with him, it also brought back to him—once more, like a pesky fly—Isaiah's accusations. To be a murderer, that was inconceivable for Daimyon. But as the Infinites around him reacted to their reveals with genuine shock and regret, he had to realise that Monokuma was not lying about them. Did the bear only put a falsehood into his file? Was he that special?
It had to be right. It had to be right.
Thumbing through the notebook, at every page he fought off the urge to stop looking. But no matter how deep into his thick diaries he had gotten, there was no mention, not a peep, about any crime larger than adultery—which he had written poems about—that he had committed. He was hesitating now whether he wanted to even make note of his burning curiosity in the current moment. If he did not write it down, he would just forget about it.
Alas, no one else would.
Hearing the encouraging words of Alice and her brother towards Zachary was the final push the poet needed to write down a reminder: talk to Isaiah; ask about the murder.
By the time he had refocused, most of their allotted minute had already passed. Daimyon cursed his hand-wringing. With the seconds ticking down, he looked at Noel, who did not say anything but looked more ready than ever to take on the whole world if needed. The stone shattered right then and there, his hand moved, and he finally pulled the lever.
The results were almost unanimous; it surprised Daimyon. Bolstered by Noel's fighting words, he felt proud of his fellows. But as all good feelings in this cursed hospital, his pride was also short-lived, for a different man took the audience captive just seconds later. The poet did not recognise the man, which felt rather awkward as he saw faces of rage and disgust on many of the Infinites. It took him a bit of leafing to remind himself who he was facing.
“The end? Really...?” he muttered in disbelief. He tried giving the mastermind's words no quarter, but the harder he tried, the more the seeds of hope took root in his mind. Could this really be the end of their suffering? As Noel turned to him, words sprouted from those seeds, words he spoke with heart. “Heroes live on in death—in our minds, in our heads they never rest. On our mouths, in our words they remain, smiling at us from the other page. Fare thee well, Noel.”