Meanwhile, Trizha continued her relentless pursuit of the little boy.
Her breathing grew more ragged with every passing second, the air burning in her lungs as she struggled to match the unnatural speed of the child.
With every turn, the maze seemed to expand, growing larger and more complex than any architecture should allow.
"What is wrong with this place?" Trizha thought, her eyes darting frantically between the glass panels. "I've been running for what feels like miles. Is there even an edge to this maze, or does it just go on forever?"
The environment had become a blur of silver and gold; her wavy blonde hair flashed in the reflections whenever she passed under a flickering bulb, making it look like a hundred girls were chasing a hundred ghosts.
The only sounds left in her world were the rhythmic thud of her own heart, the rasp of her breath, and the distant, agonizing whimpering of the boy.
As she pushed deeper into the labyrinth, a chilling realization took hold: she was utterly isolated.
The sounds of the festival—the distant music, the laughter, the chatter of other tourists—had vanished.
Even the signal on her phone, which she had tried to use earlier to call Wyne or Margaret for backup, had flatlined into a "No Service" void.
She was chasing a shadow into the heart of a vacuum.
Suddenly, her eyes locked onto the boy's heels.
She noticed the dark, wet glisten of blood dripping from his injuries, yet as she watched a drop fall, it never hit the floor.
It simply vanished in mid-air, as if the ground itself refused to acknowledge the boy's existence.
He made no sound as he ran; no footfalls, no rustle of clothing. He was a silent, bleeding phantom.
It was as if he was an illusion.
An illusion… from the past.
"Hold on! Hey... please stop!" Trizha cried out, her voice cracking with desperation. "I'm here to help you! You're hurt!"
The boy didn't even flinch.
He rounded a sharp right turn with a suddenness that caught Trizha completely off-guard.
She couldn't compensate for the momentum; she slammed hard into a mirror wall, her shoulder and forehead colliding with her own reflection.
"Ow... dang it..." Trizha groaned, pressing a palm to her throbbing face.
She shook her head to clear the stars from her vision and lunged around the corner, unwilling to let a child suffer because of her own clumsiness.
But as she squared her shoulders to resume the chase, she stopped dead.
The hallway ahead was empty.
The whimpering was gone.
"Where is he?" her mind screamed, her gaze darting into every silver nook. "He couldn't have just disappeared!"
She stood there for a long moment, her hands migrating to her hips as she let out a long, shuddering sigh.
The adrenaline was beginning to drain, replaced by a cold, heavy fatigue.
She looked at the empty path and finally let her shoulders drop.
"Whatever," she muttered to herself, her voice sounding small in the vast silence. "There are plenty of other people in this park. Someone else will find him. He's probably just... being stubborn. It's pointless to help someone who won't even look at you."
She tried to convince herself she was being practical, but the truth was simpler: she was exhausted and lost.
Her initial motive—finding Wyne and Margaret—reasserted itself like a beacon.
She turned around to begin the long walk back toward the entrance.
…But as she turned, she didn't find an empty hallway.
Nomoro was there.
He stood only a few feet away, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.
He looked as though he had run a marathon just to find this exact spot.
He straightened his back, looming over her, trying to maintain a shred of composure despite the sweat matting his short dark hair.
Trizha froze.
Her body began to tremble, a primal vibration that started in her knees and worked its way up to her chest.
"What is he doing here? How did he find me? Did he... did he chase me just like I was chasing that kid?"
Panic flared in her mind, hot and blinding. Looking at him up close, she was struck by a jagged sense of deja vu.
His face—that specific, haunting expression—reminded her of a time she had tried desperately to bury.
In an instant, her mind began to fracture the present.
The Nomoro in front of her, dressed in a black jacket and grey t-shirt, began to flicker. In her mind's eye, he shifted back into his school uniform, wearing the same face.
Then back to the jacket.
Uniform.
Jacket.
The images strobed again and again until she couldn't tell the difference, all because that expression remained unchanged.
The revelation hit her like a physical blow.
It was a cocktail of toxins: nervousness, anxiety, regret, and a sudden, acidic burst of self-hatred.
She remembered how she had treated him—how she had used her pride and her popularity like a shield to crush him, all for the sake of her own image.
She had thought she was safe in the hotel, and even in the aquarium, she had blown her chance to fix it because she was too distracted by the man she thought she "loved."
Now, her unfinished responsibility was standing right in front of her.
"I'm not ready."
She thought frantically.
Trizha took a stumbling step back, her mouth hanging open as she tried to swallow the lump of guilt in her throat.
She hated this feeling.
She wanted to be the popular, influential girl who was always in control, not this shaking wreck confronting a reality she had tried to outrun.
"N-no... no, no..." she whimpered, her hands shaking at her sides.
Nomoro's eyes widened as he read the raw terror on her face.
He gulped, forcing his breathing to slow as he took the initiative. He raised his hands slowly, palms open and empty, showing her he wasn't a threat.
But it was the wrong move.
To Trizha, those open hands just looked like an invitation to a confrontation she wasn't prepared for.
"Calm down, Trizha. Just... calm—"
"D-don't!"
She shrieked, taking another step back.
Tears were stinging her eyes now, hot and unshed.
She wanted to turn and run, to find Wyne and Margaret and hide behind their strength.
She wanted to finish their "final voyage" without having to look this cruel reality in the eye.
But then, a voice—clear, cold, and strangely authoritative—echoed in the back of her mind.
"Don't run away. Face it."
Trizha froze.
It was her own voice that she heard directly inside her head.
Though, it wasn't hers.
The words acted like a splash of ice water, clearing the fog of her panic.
The fragmented memories of her school days settled, replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity.
The determination she had felt briefly at the aquarium returned, stronger and more focused.
She was still terrified of the responsibility, yes, but the need to end the cycle of hatred was beginning to outweigh the fear.
Nomoro watched the transformation in silence.
He saw the shaking stop.
He saw her mouth click shut and the tears retreat.
Most importantly, he saw her stop backing away.
The "demon" and the "princess" stood in a deadlocked silence, their emotions bleeding into one another through the still air of the maze.
Trizha clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white.
She bit her lower lip, staring directly into Nomoro's eyes, refusing to look away for even a second.
"That's right…" she thought, her inner voice growing steady. "Why am I running? He's right here. The chance is right here. Right in front of me…"
She took a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
She kept moving until she was mere inches from him, forcing him to meet her gaze.
Nomoro stood his ground, his expression mirroring her own—a complex mask of pain, hope, and resolve.
"Why should I run away and have fun out there while this is still rotting in here?"
Trizha's mind screamed.
"My pride says I'm not ready, but my heart says I am! I am… I am ready!!"
She stood tall, her chest heaving, a stubborn pout forming on her lips as she ignored every instinct telling her to flee.
She was done with the silence.
She was done with the "unfinished."
She took a deep breath, looking Nomoro straight in the eye, and finally spoke the words she had owed him for a lifetime.
"Nomoro... I..."
.
.
.
.
.
"I'm sorry!!"