CHAPTER 15: THE PROTAGONIST'S PROFILE
***
「That day, I lost more than just my nerve; I lost the last petal of the flower that held my sense of responsibility, letting it drift away into a dark, bottomless void.」
The hotel suite was a tomb of shadows, lit only by the cold, fluorescent glow spilling from the bathroom door.
Outside that small rectangle of light, the world was a heavy, suffocating black.
Inside, the constant, rhythmic drumming of the shower head echoed against the porcelain tiles—a lonely, mechanical sound that filled the silence.
Suddenly, the water cut off.
The mechanical hum died, followed shortly by the click of a light switch. The room plunged into total darkness for a heartbeat before the bathroom door creaked open.
Trizha stepped out, a white towel wrapped tightly around her shivering frame.
Her first step onto the carpet was accompanied by a wet, slippery sound, the moisture from her skin soaking into the fabric.
She didn't look up.
Her head remained bowed, the weight of her damp hair pulling her gaze toward the floor.
The manic, unsettling smile she had worn under the water was gone, replaced by an expression that was hollow, unreadable, and utterly devoid of life.
She turned her head slowly to the right. In the center of the dim living area, a single object sat on the small mahogany coffee table.
It was a cup of miso ramen.
Trizha froze, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the bright packaging.
Confusion flickered across her face for a moment, a rare crack in her numbness, until the memory resurfaced from the fog of the past few days.
This was it—the very last cup.
She had hoarded it, saving it for a late-night craving after sharing the others with Wyne during those afternoons that now felt like they belonged to a different century.
She walked toward the table, her bare feet silent on the floor.
She reached down and lifted the cup, turning it over in her hands as if it were an ancient relic.
"Right," Trizha whispered to the empty room, her thoughts swirling like the steam she imagined rising from the cup. "I forgot I even had this. I hope it hasn't expired yet."
She set the ramen back down with a muted thud and retreated into the bedroom to change.
When she emerged minutes later, she wasn't wearing the comfortable pajamas of a girl ready for bed.
Instead, she had donned a flamboyant, high-fashion outfit—vibrant colors and sharp lines that screamed for attention.
She crossed to the vanity and flicked on the bright LED lights.
Staring into the mirror, she studied the stranger looking back at her.
She closed her eyes tight, took a shuddering breath, and when she opened them, the "Influencer" was back.
A practiced, cheerful expression locked into place, her lips curving into a perfect, porcelain smile.
"I feel uneasy," she thought, the words a sharp contrast to the joy on her face. "My stomach is doing somersaults."
Ignoring the warning signs of her own body, Trizha grabbed her phone and marched back to the living room.
She sat on the plush couch, placing her professional camera on the table next to the ramen.
She snatched up the cup and retreated to the kitchen, her movements mechanical as she boiled the water and prepared the meal.
When the noodles were ready, she returned to her seat.
She sat there in the silence, staring at the camera lens and then at the steaming bowl in her lap.
A wave of hesitation washed over her.
She felt a profound sense of wrongness, a deep-seated instinct telling her that she couldn't—or shouldn't—do this.
Was it guilt?
Or was she simply too exhausted to maintain the lie?
She clicked her tongue, a sharp sound of irritation, and shook her head to clear the doubt.
"Don't stop me now," she muttered, her voice hard. "Not when I've come this far."
She set the bowl on the table, checked her reflection one last time, and hit the button to go live.
The transition was instantaneous, though her voice betrayed her for a split second.
"H-hello everyone! Trizha here once again!" she chirped, her hands fluttering in an energetic wave. "I am so, so sorry for the radio silence! The La Luna Sangre Hotel has been absolutely wild, and there were just so many events for me to deal with! You wouldn't believe the schedule!"
She forced a smirk, leaning forward to grab the ramen bowl. She rested the hot plastic directly against her bare knees, ignoring the stinging heat as it seeped into her skin.
On the screen, the view count began to explode.
Hundreds turned into thousands within seconds; likes and hearts flooded the side of the screen in a colorful, chaotic blur.
She analyzed the scrolling text, her smile widening even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Take a look at this!" Trizha laughed, her voice a pitch too high, a frantic, joking edge to her tone. "The very last bowl of miso ramen in my stash. I think I was subconsciously saving it for a special occasion... or maybe just for you guys!"
She picked up her spoon, swirling the noodles around in the murky broth.
She was about to take a large, performative bite when her eyes caught the latest string of comments.
[What's with the eyebags? You look like you haven't slept in a week…]
[Another ramen video? Come on, give us something new.]
[Are you okay, Izha? You look... different.]
The concern in the comments felt like physical blows.
Some were complaining about the lack of content, while others were dissecting her appearance with terrifying accuracy.
They could see through the makeup; they could see the ghost behind the smile.
Trizha let out a nervous, brittle laugh. She shrugged her shoulders, trying to dismiss their worries with a casual wave of her hand.
She had made her choice.
She was moving on.
The conflict with Wyne, Margaret, and Nomoro was a "lost" cause, and if she couldn't take responsibility, she would simply bury it under a mountain of new content.
She lifted a spoonful of noodles, making sure the camera had a clear shot.
She smiled at the lens, projecting an image of pure, unbothered bliss—the girl who had it all.
She opened her mouth and swallowed the first bite.
But then…
"BLEEGGHHH!!"
The reaction was violent and visceral.
Trizha lurched forward, her body convulsing as she vomited onto the expensive hotel carpet.
A wave of pure disgust washed over her face.
The taste was an assault on her senses—not the savory, salty comfort she expected, but something foul, bitter, and intensely metallic.
It tasted like rot.
It tasted like trash.
She panted heavily, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared down at the mess on the floor.
Her hands shook so much the ramen bowl wobbled on the table.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze back to the cup she had been so desperate to consume for clout.
The light from the living room hit the surface of the broth, revealing the truth she had been too distracted to notice;
The noodles were encrusted with thick, fuzzy patches of stained mold, the heat of the water only serving to release the pungent, sickly scent of decay.
In other words, it was already expired.