The halls of the Mirror Maze remained frozen, a labyrinth of silver and light that captured every angle of the surrounding stillness.
The silence was not peaceful; it was a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed against the eardrums.
Deep within the crystalline gut of the attraction, only one person remained truly standing, his breathing rhythmic and calm.
The glass surrounding them began to hum—a faint, high-pitched tingle like vibrating metal that grew more insistent with every passing second of the standoff.
"A sacrifice to the core," Zackier remarked, his voice smooth and devoid of any real empathy. "You're truly no different from those foolish characters in the cinema, those who believe that throwing their lives into the gears of fate will somehow make the world turn better. Sometimes, their gamble pays off. Most of the time, however, it does not."
Zackier took a slow, deliberate step toward the slumped figure of Margaret.
She remained on her knees, her head hanging low, her long hair forming a dark curtain that hid her face from the flickering lightbulbs.
She looked discarded, a broken thing amidst a sea of her own reflections.
He reached down and retrieved the fallen knife, turning it over in his hands to observe the way the light danced off the edge.
"And you failed, my friend," he continued, his tone conversational as he tested the weight of the blade. "But I have to admit—you are a fascinating creature. I was genuinely impressed. Just moments ago, you lunged with your left hand, a desperate, clumsy strike. As I moved to swat the weapon away, I didn't even register that you had anticipated my movement. You switched the blade to your right hand mid-air. By the time I realized the trick, it was almost too late. Still, futile in the end, but impressive nonetheless. But that's not all…"
He knelt down in front of her, the movement fluid and predatory. He leaned in until his lips were inches from her ear, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper that seemed to bypass her skin and vibrate directly against her skull.
"I was impressed that a character like you destined for sacrifice would immediately hunt me down the second I appeared, attempting to end me without a single shred of hesitation," he breathed, a dark glint in his eyes. "It's a rare stereotype. I might actually take some inspiration from your ferocity. You're cleverer than you look, Margaret."
He held the knife up between them, flexing the polished steel as if showing her a trophy, his gaze darting between her bowed head and the lethal point of the weapon.
"If I were the mindless serial killer you've convinced yourself I am, I would have ended you the heartbeat I heard you mention things that only I am meant to know," he said, his voice sharpening into a cold edge. "And where would that unnecessary death lead me? To a messy exit and an eternity's worth of consequences I have no interest in dealing with."
Suddenly, he reached out and gripped her face without a hint of consent, his fingers digging into her chin with a bruising strength.
"So tell me, Margaret..." he hissed, slowly and deliberately forcing her head up so she was compelled to look at him.
His eyes—shattered and red like broken glass—stared deep into her own, searching for the spark of the girl who had tried to kill him.
"...Do you take me for a fool?"
Margaret didn't answer.
She sat there in his grasp, her eyes wide and bloodshot, fixed on his terrifying gaze.
…But…
She was very much alive.
The strike he had delivered earlier hadn't been lethal; he had merely overwhelmed her, knocking the wind and the will out of her in one swift, violent motion.
Now, she sat before him completely stripped of her defenses, her body trembling with a visceral, primeval fear.
Tears tracked through the dust on her cheeks, and she looked utterly small in the shadow of his presence.
"You're not that clever." Zackier muttered, his voice dripping with sudden boredom.
He abruptly let go of her chin, the force of his release making her head snap back slightly.
He stood up, turning his back on her as he began to pace toward the exit of the corridor.
"I'm sure you noticed my little hypothetical," he said, not looking back. "About if I were an actual killer. The answer is no, I am not. Just because your intuition told you something was 'off' about me doesn't give you the right to play judge, jury, and executioner. You saw a monster because you were looking for one."
He turned back to watch her struggle.
Margaret was slowly, painfully picking herself up off the floor.
Her legs shook as she tried to find her balance, her small frame squirming with a soft, heartbroken sob as she wiped at her eyes.
She looked traumatized, her spirit crushed under the weight of his psychological dismantling.
Zackier watched her with the detached curiosity of a boy watching an ant struggle after its legs had been pulled off.
He felt no pity, no regret, and certainly no worry.
"I thought you might actually be someone different, someone who transcended the script," he said, his lip curling in a sneer. "But you humans are all cut from the same, tedious cloth. You disgust me."
He turned away, ready to leave her in the mirrors.
But then, a small, broken sound emerged from behind him.
"...I'm sorry."
It was an apology. A quiet, ragged word that seemed to drain the last of the tension from the room.
Zackier stopped, his shoulders tensing as he processed the unexpected response from the girl who had just tried to put a knife through his heart.
"I'm sorry that I... that I tried to kill you," Margaret whispered, her voice thick with a sudden, crushing shame.
In her shattered state, her mind had flipped.
She looked at Zackier and no longer saw the monster she had sensed; she saw a boy she had nearly murdered in cold blood.
The guilt of her 'innocent' victim's near-death began to weigh on her more than the fear of what he was.
All because… she felt ashamed of herself.
"Yeah. Whatever. Just don't disturb me anymore," Zackier replied, his back still toward her. He didn't want her apology; he wanted her compliance. "Now, pull yourself together. We're getting out of here."
Margaret stood in the pulsing silence for a long moment, her breath hitching in her throat as she fought to regain some semblance of composure.
Finally, she gave a slow, jerky nod.
She picked up her knife and tucked it back into her bag with hands that wouldn't stop vibrating.
The adrenaline had gone cold, leaving her feeling hollow and brittle.
She followed him toward the exit, her head bowed low, her eyes fixed on the floor as Zackier led the way through the maze.
Almost wasted my time with this brat, Zackier thought, his eyes scanning the endless reflections for his true prize.
As they navigated the final turns, he caught a flash of color through the glass.
In the distance, near the primary entrance of the maze, a girl with a familiar silhouette was stepping into the light.
It was Trizha.
Even from this distance, her hesitation was obvious; she looked small and frightened, her eyes darting around the mirrored walls as she searched for her friends.
Zackier's hand went to his pocket.
He felt the small cases of his red contact lenses.
He pulled them out, his fingers nimble as he prepared to hide his true eyes once more.
A new, truly sinister grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"...All I gotta do now is wait."