"I'm sorry!!"
The words came out, and tore through reality itself.
However, the tone of the voice wasn't the same as you believed.
It wasn't feminine.
It wasn't light.
It wasn't the same apology that was needed for a resolve.
The words didn't come from Trizha.
They tore from Nomoro's throat, raw and trembling.
His voice was thick with a gentle, agonizing sincerity that should have been the key to her salvation.
He stood there, the boy she had branded a demon, bowing his head so low his dark hair obscured his eyes, offering his soul as a sacrifice before she could even find the strength to offer hers.
But the relief Trizha expected never came.
Instead, she was struck by a paralyzing silence.
She stared down at the top of his head, her purple eyes wide and glassier than the mirrors surrounding them.
In an instant, the fierce determination she had clawed out of her soul vanished, snuffed out like a candle in a gale.
"You...?" she thought, her mind spinning into a chaotic void. "Wait, why you? What are you doing? Why are you the one apologizing to me?"
The complex gears of her guilt began to grind against the sheer weight of his kindness.
It was too much.
The walls she had built to keep her ego intact finally buckled and collapsed.
Without her pride to shield her, the negative emotions she had suppressed—the self-loathing, the shame, the crushing weight of her own history—overwhelmed her entirely.
She could no longer hide behind her influence.
She could no longer endure the sight of his humility.
Trizha threw both hands over her mouth, muffling a sob that threatened to shatter her ribs.
She took a staggering third step back, her mind racing toward a conclusion that would alter her self-image for eternity.
"Nomoro... no... please don't tell me…"
The thought crystallized in her mind, cold and sharp.
"...Are you apologizing because you truly believe you were the one at fault this entire time? No... that's not right. That's not... that's not it! it's not true!"
Misunderstanding.
It was a tragedy born of a profound misunderstanding—not on Nomoro's part, but on hers.
Nomoro, still bowed, began to hear the sound of her tears hitting the floor.
He assumed they were tears of relief.
He thought that by taking the burden of the apology upon himself, he was finally lifting the stress from her shoulders, giving her the "better end" he believed she deserved.
He allowed a small, hopeful smile to touch his lips before he finally lifted his head to witness the reconciliation.
But the face looking back at him wasn't one of relief.
It was an expression of pure, unadulterated disdain—not directed at him, but inward.
Inward.
Herself.
Trizha looked at him with eyes that screamed of a soul that hated itself.
She mumbled a series of broken, incoherent "sorries," her voice a jagged rasp, before she spun on her heel and bolted.
She ran with a desperate, frantic speed she didn't know she possessed, fleeing into the light of the exit.
"Trizha—! Wait!" Nomoro shouted.
He lunged upward, his hand outstretched to catch hers, his heart sinking as he realized he had somehow caused a deeper wound.
But as his fingers were about to brush her sleeve, a sudden, localized shockwave rippled through the air.
It struck the back of his hand with a sharp, electric force, snapping his arm back and stunning him.
He stood frozen for two long seconds, staring at his tingling skin, trying to comprehend the source of the invisible wall.
By the time the stun wore off, Trizha was gone, swallowed by the final corridor that led out of the mirror house.
Minutes later, Trizha burst through the exit into the humid night air.
Her fists were clenched with such white-knuckled intensity that her nails bit into her palms, drawing thin trickles of blood she didn't even feel.
Nomoro's apology looped in her brain like a broken record, each repetition fueling her self-disdain.
She felt so utterly vile, so fundamentally "bad," that her body began to subconsciously crave the pain as a form of penance.
She was a runaway train of emotion, heading straight for a collision, suddenly tripping.
But she never hit the ground.
Zackier was there, standing like a sentinel at the edge of the attraction.
He caught her mid-stride, her body crashing into his solid chest. He wrapped his arms around her intimately, his presence acting as a sudden, cooling balm to her fire.
Trizha looked up, her vision blurred by tears, seeing only the mask of deep concern he wore.
"Hey there, sweetheart... what's wrong?" Zackier asked, his voice a velvet purr.
"Zack...?" Trizha whispered, her voice failing her.
"You look absolutely heartbroken," he said, pulling her closer into his embrace. "What happened in there?"
"I..."
"Trizha!"
Nomoro's voice boomed across the plaza. He stumbled out of the Mirror Maze, his chest heaving as he skidded to a halt.
He saw her—saw her wrapped in Zackier's arms—and his hand curled into a fist at his side.
He gritted his teeth, a flash of helpless fury and confusion crossing his face.
Zackier looked up, his fuchsia eyes narrowing as a slow, predatory smile spread across his lips.
He understood it instantly.
The stage was already set just for him.
"Hmph, I see..." Zackier murmured.
He loosened his grip on Trizha just enough to look down into her eyes, his expression turning into one of calculated, charming persuasion. "Trizha, tell me... what did that "devil" do to you this time?"
Trizha looked at Zackier, then slowly turned her head toward Nomoro.
He looked so vulnerable standing there in the middle of the crowded park.
He was still trying to fix things, even as the public began to cluster around them.
She could hear the whispers starting.
The crowd recognized her—the city's golden girl, the influencer—and they recognized the boy standing across from her as the merciless demon of the school.
But the social stakes didn't matter to her anymore.
All she could see was the shaking of Nomoro's eyes, a mirror of her own instability.
"Nomoro... I…"
Her expression softened, her hand releasing its grip on Zackier's shirt.
She began to reach out toward Nomoro, her index finger extending slowly, deliberately, as if to finally bridge the gap.
In that same moment, Wyne burst through the perimeter of the crowd.
She was gasping for breath, her clothes disheveled from her frantic search. She took in the scene in a heartbeat: Nomoro, Trizha, and Zackier.
"Nomoro? What is he... and Trizha?" Wyne breathed.
Suddenly, a cold dread seized her.
The tableau before her was a perfect, horrific echo of the day Trizha had first "returned the favor" to Nomoro.
Wyne took a step forward, then another, beginning to shove through the wall of spectators.
"This feeling... I've felt this before," Wyne thought, her mind racing.
She remembered calling Trizha an idiot. She remembered the fallout. And in a flash of painful realization, she understood her own role in the tragedy.
「Trizha... all this time, I thought you were the only idiot. But I was the one not paying attention. I was the idiot for not stopping you when the conflict first began. But I won't let it happen again! I will stop you!」
"Trizha...! STOP!!!" Wyne screamed.
Time seemed to dilate, slowing to a crawl.
As Wyne lunged forward, a miniature sphere of swirling purple energy appeared in the air before her.
It spun with a violent, silent velocity.
Wyne's eyes widened, her scream dying in her throat as she stared at the anomaly.
Then, it exploded.
The blast was silent but potent, striking Wyne directly in the head.
She crumpled instantly, her consciousness vanishing as she slumped into the back of a startled bystander.
At the center of the clearing, Trizha's finger finally snapped into place, pointing directly at Nomoro's heart.
Her face was a mask of ice—emotionless, hollow, and terrifyingly cold.
「Nomoro... for the second time, I will hurt you. But this time, it isn't for my pride. I am a bad person. You gave me a chance, and I wasted it. I blew it. I hate myself so much that I can't even look at you. So I'm choosing the only path I know; I'm running away so I can never hurt you again. So please... just…」
"STAY AWAY FROM ME!"
Trizha's voice rose to a shrill, hysterical pitch that carried over the entire plaza.
"Nomoro, he... no... that demon!" she shrieked, her eyes wild with a faked terror that looked all too real to the crowd. "He was harassing me! He tried to touch me... in my private parts! It was so scary! Please, someone... GET HIM AWAY FROM ME!"
The reaction was instantaneous.
A collective gasp of horror rippled through the spectators.
Even Zackier feigned a look of shocked outrage, but then again, he couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.
Trizha's words were a death sentence.
The female students looked at Nomoro with pure loathing, while the men in the crowd felt a surge of righteous, protective rage.
Teachers tried to intervene, but the crowd was a boiling sea of bodies.
Zackier pulled Trizha away, tucking her head into his chest as the mob surged forward.
"Trizha... why?" Nomoro thought, his world spinning. "What did I do wrong this time?"
Fear finally broke through his composure as he saw the wall of angry men approaching him.
He raised his hands in a futile gesture of surrender, but he knew it was over.
His eyes stayed locked on Trizha until the mob obscured her, seeking a reason in her gaze that he would never find.
"Trizha... if I did something wrong... I'm sorry."
The thought was silenced by a heavy fist crashing into his jaw.
A boot caught him in the stomach, folding him double.
He fell to the pavement, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth as a dozen shadows descended upon him.
He didn't fight back.
He accepted the blows, the kicks, and the curses, convinced in his broken heart that he must have truly hurt her again.
A demon is a demon, after all, regardless of the tears in its eyes.