"Did he just... float down?"
Trizha's thoughts were a tangled mess of disbelief as she watched the figure descend.
Her vision, once blurred by the throbbing pain in her skull, finally snapped into focus.
The moonlight carved out the sharp, arrogant features of the man standing before her.
It was Zackier Morkator.
The realization hit her like a physical blow.
To see a human being move with such fluid, supernatural grace—defying every law of physics—was a sight that belonged in the pages of a dark fantasy, not on the rooftop of a hotel.
Yet, the man standing there was very real, and the aura he radiated was thick with a vanity that made the very air feel heavy.
Disdain began to boil in her chest, quickly followed by a searing rage that burned away her confusion.
She remembered the fountain.
She remembered the humiliation and the way he had looked at her then—as if she were an insect beneath his expensive shoes.
"Zack, you bastard!" Trizha barked, her voice cracking with indignation as she glared at him. "Everything you did to me, an everything you made me do… how dare you–"
"In this pitiful excuse of a world... I am reality."
Zackier's voice cut through her sentence like a razor through silk.
He didn't raise his tone, yet it carried a weight that seemed to vibrate in Trizha's very bones.
The arrogance in his words was so absolute that it didn't even feel like a boast; to him, it was simply a fundamental law of the universe.
He began to walk toward her, his hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Each step was silent, yet he moved with the predatory confidence of a wolf approaching a trapped rabbit.
"There were a few things I didn't truly expect in this latest Unending," Zackier continued, his eyes locked onto hers with a chilling intensity.
"First, the sudden existence of Margaret Sensha... a cockroach that refuses to be crushed. Second, the inexplicable change in the narrative during that Japanese-themed festival a few days ago. And finally... you, Trizha Frantzes."
He stopped just a few feet away, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the concrete, looming over her.
"Not only did you appear different compared to the previous unendings, I made you inflict a damage upon yourself that should have shattered your soul like cheap glass," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "I designed a fate for you that should have left you withered and broken for life, a pariah whose very existence would be loathed by everyone you ever cared for. You were supposed to move through the rest of your days like a river of flames—consuming yourself until nothing remained but ash. And yet… here you stand."
He tilted his head, his gaze analytical and cold as he scanned her face for the slightest sign of a breakdown.
"So tell me... how are you still standing? How can you stand there and act so casual? To act as if everything is fine? I truly expected a more... exquisite dramatization of your suffering by now."
Trizha stared back at him.
She could feel the gravity of what he was saying—the horrifying revelation that the misery she had endured was a deliberate "infliction" by his hand.
He was claiming responsibility for the rot in her life.
"Shut up..."
Zackier's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features.
He had expected a scream, a plea for mercy, or perhaps the hollow gaze of a girl who had finally lost her mind.
He did not expect a dismissal.
"I don't care when you caused this to happen," Trizha said, her voice growing steadier with every word. "And I don't care that your actions led me here. As long as it happened in the past, and as long as I lived through it, it's still my life. Everything that started, everything that happened... I own it now. I've come to acknowledge my own part in it. I've come to repent for my own actions, not yours."
She took a step forward, the clenching of her fists softening as a strange, calm confidence washed over her.
The negativity that had been eating at her for days didn't vanish, but it was pushed aside by a newfound sense of self-awareness.
"Huh?" Zackier breathed, his brow furrowing in confusion.
This wasn't the script.
This wasn't the "Seventh Emotion" he was supposed to be harvesting.
"You forced me, Wyne, and Margaret to separate," Trizha continued, her eyes burning with a light he couldn't extinguish. "Fine. It was meant to happen. You made me feel miserable and ensured everyone would hate me? Fine. It was all fated to occur. But if you think you 'interrupted' my life, let me remind you of something, Zackier..."
She leaned in, her voice low and sharp.
"You haven't changed a thing. I am still here. And I am still me."
Zackier stood motionless, his mind reeling.
"What is this?" he screamed internally. "What caused her to act like this? She was supposed to be pathetic! She was supposed to be crawling at my feet, begging for an explanation, drowning in denial! What do you mean "acknowledge"? You imbecile! You were supposed to be my masterpiece of misery!"
The silence on the rooftop became deafening. Zackier's face contorted, a vein throbbing in his temple as he spent several seconds mentally cursing her existence.
He felt a rare, stinging sensation: the frustration of a creator whose clay had suddenly grown hands and struck him.
"Just turn around," Zackier finally hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Get out of my sight before I change my mind about letting you walk."
Trizha didn't hesitate.
She turned her back on him, not out of trust, but out of a sheer, defiant lack of interest in his tantrum.
She spotted a heavy steel door on a far wall—the exit to the lower floors.
She began to walk toward it, her footsteps rhythmic and calm.
She ignored the man behind her.
She shouldn't have.
But Zackier didn't just move; he vanished and reappeared.
In a blur of motion fueled by pure spite, he was suddenly inches from her back.
A silver blade slipped from his sleeve, reflecting the cold moonlight as he prepared to drive it through her heart.
Trizha felt the shift in the air, the sudden spike of murderous intent, but she was too slow.
She began to turn, her eyes widening as she realized she was meeting her demise.
The blade arched through the air, aimed with surgical precision.
Then, the rooftop door didn't just open—it exploded inward.
A figure blurred across the concrete.
A strong right hand caught Trizha by the shoulder, shoving her violently to the side and out of the path of the blade.
Simultaneously, a left fist, carrying the weight of a desperate, protective fury, launched toward Zackier's face.
Zackier's eyes lit up with a predatory excitement.
He pivoted mid-air, bringing his forearm up to block the strike.
The impact sounded like a crack of thunder.
The sheer force of the punch sent Zackier skidding backward across the roof, his boots sparking against the concrete for several meters before he came to a stop.
"There you are..." Zackier chuckled, shaking out his arm.
He looked up, his grin widening into something truly demonic.
Standing in front of a fallen, trembling Trizha was Nomoro Ketatsuki.
His breathing was heavy, his posture low and guarded, shielding the girl with his very life.
Zackier took a step forward, his laughter echoing against the wind. "I brought your precious 'Destined' to this very tower, bypassing every other casualty just to smoke you out. I wanted to see if you'd finally reveal yourself."
He pointed the knife toward Nomoro, his voice dripping with ancient, bitter recognition.
"You have no idea how long I've tried to find you, just so I could end your miserable life in the most pathetic way possible, Symbol of Loneliness... Narasao Tarosono!"