You sit slumped against the cold wall of the gymnasium, the grim weight of the killing game pressing on your chest. Sweat beads on your forehead — whether from fear or exhaustion, you can't tell. The sterile air buzzes quietly... until a very different kind of buzz pierces through it.

"Puhuhu~!~ Hope you’re comfy, my little despair-snack!"

A shadow falls over you. You slowly look up — it's him. Monokuma struts toward you, his fat, wobbling rear now way bigger than you remember from the morning meeting, his every step making his cheeks jiggle ridiculously. His mischievous smirk stretches almost ear-to-ear.

"Tsk tsk tsk," he chides mockingly, wagging a stubby paw. "You’re not killing anyone yet! That just won't do... Sooo, new rule: you’re my official fart slave now!"

Before you can react, Monokuma spins around and plops his plush, oversized, monochrome butt right onto your lap. Your vision fills with a wobbly mountain of fur and fluff, your legs pinned under his impossible weight.

"Puhuhuhu! Let’s motivate you the old-fashioned way — through sheer humiliation and stinky despair!"

Without warning, he lifts one side of his rear and lets out a monstrous, vibrating brap right against your lap.

The force nearly shakes you through the floor. A hot, rank cloud of recycled air blasts over you, leaving you dizzy and teary-eyed. Monokuma, of course, howls in laughter.

"Upupupu! How does that taste, huh? Smells like Murder Motivation No. 5TM!" He snickers and wriggles his fat butt against you, cranking out another cheek-flapping blast.

You flinch as the stench smacks you like a frying pan. Your body twitches from the sheer potency.

"Oh? Are you crying? How adorable! Nothing says 'despair' like being turned into a living fart cushion!"

He even fans his paw over his plump behind, wafting more gas directly into your helpless face. Monokuma’s black-and-white cheeks clap with every obnoxiously wet toot he fires off, the sound echoing off the gym walls like a sad, mocking drumroll.

You’re pretty sure you can see the stink waves at this point.

"Better start thinking about killing, cutie! Or I'll be gaslighting you all day long... in the most literal way possible!" Another cartoonishly loud blast ripples against your thighs, as Monokuma bounces his fat butt gleefully.

You can't talk. You can barely breathe. But somewhere — buried beneath your nausea — you realize... he’s enjoying this way too much.