"Margaret? What in the world are you doing buying something like that?"
Wyne's voice cut through the humid afternoon air as she approached her friend.
Margaret was standing at a peculiar stall, one of the many eccentric additions to the park personally curated by Yuri Calypso.
Yuri had apparently decided that even sixteen-year-olds required the means for self-defense in this increasingly unpredictable world, though she had arguably crossed a line by stocking the stall exclusively with professional-grade tactical blades instead of simple charms or whistles.
Margaret had just finished the transaction, her fingers curling around the hilt of a sleek, heavy knife.
"You're not actually planning to go out and stab someone with that, are you?" Wyne added with a light, teasing smirk.
She leaned against a wooden pillar, trying to inject some levity into the strange sight of her quietest friend wielding a weapon.
Margaret remained perfectly still, her expression a familiar mask of deadpan stoicism.
She held the knife as if it were a sacred relic, a treasure unearthed from a forgotten era.
Then, she turned toward Wyne, and a bright, uncharacteristic smile bloomed across her face—a smile so radiant it felt almost alien on her features.
"No, of course not," Margaret chirped, her tone light. "I just find its sharpness quite fascinating. It feels precise enough to slice through flesh for a surgical procedure, so I simply couldn't resist the purchase."
Wyne offered a soft, somewhat weary smile in return. She shook her head, dismissing the unease. It's just Margaret, she told herself.
She's always had a morbid streak. But deep down, a small seed of doubt took root.
There was something about that smile—it reminded Wyne of the way Trizha often used a cheerful exterior to barricade her true feelings from the world.
"Yeah... just the sharpness. Right," Wyne muttered, turning her gaze toward the crowded promenade. "Anyway, we should get moving. Trizha is probably wandering around in circles by now. We need to check on her before we go off to confront those people we talked about. You know how she is—she might actually start crying if she thinks we've abandoned her—"
"I bought this knife for another reason, Wyne."
The sentence was cold and sharp, cutting Wyne's rambling off mid-breath.
Wyne paused, the air suddenly feeling a few degrees colder. She turned her head slowly to look at her friend.
The face Margaret wore now was one of profound appreciation, a look of deep-seated clarity that Wyne hadn't seen in years.
It was a look that made Wyne feel utterly dumbfounded.
A sense of impending disaster washed over her, a premonition that something irreversible was about to happen, though she couldn't bring herself to believe it.
"What are you talking about, Margaret?" Wyne asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"I'm saying that I have a very specific plan for this blade," Margaret replied, her eyes fixed on the steel.
Wyne's brow furrowed. "Such as...?"
"Killing someone, of course."
Wyne's breath hitched.
For a fleeting second, she felt a wave of genuine intimidation roll off her friend. She took a half-step back, her heart beginning to thud against her ribs.
"H-huh... right. Very funny," Wyne said, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to maintain the joke. "I almost forgot that you're just as protective of us as I am."
"Perhaps," Margaret responded, her voice falling into a soft, melodic whisper. "In the future, we'll never truly know what we're capable of. We might just find ourselves in a position where we have to protect one another against someone truly monstrous."
She slid the knife into its sheath and tucked it carefully into her bag, zipping it shut with a definitive snick.
She turned back to Wyne, that bright, haunting smile never wavering for a second.
"And... when it comes to that moment, I think I'd prefer to be the one to protect you two first."
Wyne listened to every syllable, every inflection. She was usually the one to take charge, but the weight of Margaret's words was sinking in, slow and heavy.
"Margaret, stop it," Wyne said, her tone becoming desperate. "You're not actually going to try and kill the person you're confronting, right? Tell me you're just buying that for self-defense. Just in case. Right?"
Margaret looked at her. She could see the cracks in Wyne's armor; she could see the worry etched into her friend's brow and the way her eyes were beginning to redden, threatening to spill over with tears.
She could feel the fear radiating off Wyne like heat from a pavement.
And yet, Margaret only smiled wider.
"Maybe."
She walked past Wyne, the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
Wyne spun around, watching her friend's retreating back, her heart sinking into her stomach.
"Wyne..." Margaret called out, stopping but not turning around. "When I don't come back, it means… It means I'm dead. So when it comes to it, find Trizha, get to Nomoro, and… run away."
Wyne's eyes widened, the first of the tears finally breaking free and trailing down her cheeks like a waterfall.
The feeling in her chest was unbearable, a crushing grief for a sacrifice that hadn't even happened.
...Just yet.
Margaret turned back then, and for the last time, she smiled with a brilliance that outshone the sun.
It was a look of pure, unadulterated love, completely shedding her usual dark, Sadako-like presence.
"Don't worry so much, Wyne! You know me!" Margaret laughed, a sound like silver bells.
"As long as you two stay together..."
The memory shattered.
Inside the Mirror Maze, the air was silent and stagnant.
The same Margaret was no longer standing tall or smiling.
She was on her knees, her body slumped forward in a posture of total defeat.
Her head hung low, her shoulders trembling with the last vestiges of strength.
The knife she had bought with such purpose lay on the ground beside her, a useless piece of cold metal.
Her long, dark hair spilled over her face like a shroud, hiding her features entirely. She looked lifeless, a broken doll discarded in a hall of mirrors.
Zackier stood directly in front of her, a looming shadow against the glass.
He didn't move.
He simply looked down at her, his fuchsia eyes cold and contemplative as he watched the light fade from the scene.
The words Margaret had spoken to Wyne seemed to echo in the space between the mirrors, a ghost of a promise that felt more like a curse now.
"...I'll always be there."