It was cold.
The concrete floor made her feel flushed in comparison. Like Mikan was burning, feverish and sick. But what is love if not sickness, she thinks, as she felt that concrete floor with splayed fingers. Cold, cold, she shivered, teeth chattering in her skull. She must be rejecting it—her beloved’s final gift to her. What horrible body she had, ugly and meek and still, still betraying her. Her hands, slick with blood, push restlessly upon the concrete. It’s cold without her, isn’t it? Freezing, but that little piece of her in Mikan burns. She twitches on the ground, weak and cold and sweltering at once, and she laughs, and laughs, and laughs as her beloved tries to kill her, rot her, from the inside out. Can’t she have this? Can’t she just have her?
She’s not as lucky as Komaeda, though. She’s not as lucky as Naegi, the boy who killed her beloved, the boy she wanted to kill with her own hands. She’s just not lucky. She’s never been.
That’s how Future Foundation finds her: hand’s covered in her own blood and laughing.
(It’s a wonder they don’t shoot her dead. But then again, Mikan has always been the perfect victim, hasn’t she?)