Wyne's legs felt like they were made of lead, each step a jarring impact that vibrated up her spine, but she refused to slow down.
She was gasping for air, her lungs burning with the exertion of carrying Margaret.
The weight was more than physical.
Margaret felt fragile in her arms, a hollowed-out doll whose strength had been entirely spent in that one, desperate scream to stop the violence.
Wyne could feel the heat radiating from Margaret's injured arm, a pulsing reminder of the bridge that had just been burned.
"Come on, Margaret... just keep it together," Wyne urged, her voice trembling as she adjusted her grip. "Focus on my voice. We're almost there. Just a little further."
"Wyne... it hurts," Margaret whispered, her face pressed into Wyne's shoulder. "It hurts so much..."
"I know, I know," Wyne replied, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision. "Please, just don't cry. I'm right here. I'm not going to leave you, I promise. I've got you."
As she sprinted through the near-empty corridors of the luxury hotel, Wyne's mind—usually so slow to catch up—was racing with a cruel, newfound speed.
Every word Trizha had spat at her was etched into her brain like acid on glass.
Good-for-nothing.
Worthless.
Pathatic.
The insults hadn't just been directed at Nomoro; they were directed at the very idea of the friendship they had shared.
Trizha had backed her into a corner, leaving her with a choice she never wanted to make.
Wyne had spent years fearing the day their trio would end, but she never imagined she would be the one to deliver the killing blow.
She was the one who had finally ended it.
The one who had snapped.
The realization felt like a heavy stone in her gut, a decision made in blood and rage that could never be taken back.
***
Finally, at the far end of the hallway, the red sign of the clinic flickered into view.
Wyne didn't knock.
She didn't pause.
She slammed her shoulder into the door, bursting into the room with a violent desperation that ignored all etiquette.
The room was quiet, bathed in the soft, clinical glow of the evening light.
But Wyne froze, her heart skipping a beat.
Nomoro was there.
He was sitting by the window, the harsh moonlight catching the white of the bandages that were wrapped around his torso and head.
He looked like a fallen soldier in the aftermath of a war he hadn't asked for.
Despite the bruises and the blood that had stained his clothes earlier, he sat with a stillness that was unnerving—a calm snow sitting at the center of a hurricane.
Wyne stood paralyzed, her breath coming in ragged hitches as Nomoro slowly turned his head to look at her.
His eyes were hollow, devoid of the spark of hope he had carried in the Mirror Maze, yet beneath the deadpan exterior, Wyne could see a vulnerability that made her ache.
He stood up from the chair, his movements stiff and pained, and began to approach them.
Back in the suite, the atmosphere was a dark, suffocating contrast to the clinical silence of the infirmary.
Zackier stood over Trizha, his presence looming like a shadow that promised protection but delivered isolation.
"Don't worry about them, Trizha..." Zackier murmured, his voice a silken thread of comfort. "I will stop for you. I always will. It's strange, isn't it? We've only known each other for two days, and yet, looking at you now... I see my whole world."
Trizha lifted her head, her face swollen from Wyne's slaps and her own tears.
She looked into Zackier's fuchsia eyes, searching for a lifeline.
At his words, a flicker of something—perhaps affection, perhaps a desperate need to not be alone—fluttered in her chest.
"Zack..." she whispered, her voice breaking.
She closed her eyes, letting a final, lonely tear fall down her bruised cheek.
She leaned into him, her lips seeking his as the world outside their embrace ceased to exist.
In her mind, she was choosing love.
In reality, she was letting the last of her light be swallowed by the dark.
"The nurse left just a few minutes ago after she finished with me," Nomoro said, his voice a low, steady rumble in the small clinic. "But don't worry. I know first aid. I can help her."
He reached for a medical kit on the counter, his movements methodical.
As he stepped closer, the reality of the situation crashed down on Wyne.
She remembered the video.
She remembered the mob.
She remembered that she had been standing right next to the girl who started it all.
A sudden, sharp caution seized her.
Nomoro was the "Demon." No matter how much she understood his pain, he was still a variable she couldn't control, and she was still—in the eyes of the world—Trizha's accomplice.
Wyne's instincts flared.
She pulled Margaret back, shielding her friend's injured body with her own.
Her eyes went wide and defensive, her posture turning rigid as Nomoro reached out.
Nomoro stopped instantly.
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the rejection hitting him visibly.
He stared at Wyne's defensive stance, the silence between them growing thick with the weight of her judgment.
Then, his face smoothed back into that emotionless mask.
He understood.
No matter what he did, he would always be the monster in the room.
"Don't be afraid," he said, his voice so gentle it was almost a whisper. "You two are more hurt than I am. Please. Let me help her."
He didn't wait for her permission this time. He knelt down on the cold floor in front of them, his hands steady as he reached for Margaret's dislocated elbow.
The sheer, selfless kindness of the gesture broke the last of Wyne's strength.
The realization that she had judged him out of fear—the same fear Trizha had weaponized—consumed her with a burning regret.
She had spent the night fighting, and she was so, so tired.
Wyne's knees gave out.
She collapsed onto the floor next to them, a jagged sob breaking from her throat as she burst into tears.
She felt like she was losing her mind, caught between the girl she used to be and the wreckage of the person she had become tonight.
She was grateful for his help, yet terrified of the world they were now forced to inhabit.
***
The girl who had everything—popularity, beauty, friends—was beginning to lose it all to the darkness.
The boy who had lost everything—reputation, safety, peace—was starting to gain a strange, silent strength through his own suffering.
The door to the clinic remained open, a gateway to a conflict that was still bleeding, still waiting for someone to fix the unfixable.
But as the moon reached its zenith, the Symbol of Connection did not appear.
The trio was gone.
And in the silence of the night, a single petal of a flower withered, detached from its stem, and drifted slowly toward the floor.