"So this is… this is 'the' Trizha Frantzes."
The man muttered the words under his breath, his voice barely a ripple in the humid air of the security hub.
It was the voice of the 'He Who Interrupted'.
Zackier Morkator himself.
He stood in the shadows, his presence a dark contrast to the flickering monitors.
He was a predator in repose, his identity known to her but his motives shrouded in a cold, calculating fog.
He analyzed her from a distance just meters away from her, his expression a carefully maintained void, yet deep within those fuchsia eyes, intrigue coiled like a snake.
He was watching the legend crumble.
"Despite us 'comforting' each other last night, she is still so mentally fragile," Zackier thought, a thin, sharp smile touching his lips. "What a pathetic outlook. I suppose I can't blame her entirely, considering the sheer weight of the lies she's had to stack just to reach this height."
His interest grew with every second she spent unraveling before the console.
"This result makes for a fascinating study," he mused. "Vulnerability is the great equalizer; it strips away the artifice and exposes the 'real' reality of the individual. And Trizha… she has exposed her throat out of sheer, unadulterated despair."
"I-I didn't mean any offense, ma'am! Truly!" the CCTV operator stammered, his hands waving frantically as if to push away the heavy atmosphere Trizha had brought into the room.
"Offense…" Trizha whispered, the word tasting like ash.
The operator began to sweat profusely, his chair creaking as he shifted uncomfortably.
He wanted to make amends, to fix the shattered image of the girl he had admired through a screen for years.
"Forgive me!" the operator pleaded. "It's just… it's unusual. I know who you are, M-miss Izha. You always have that cheerful demeanor, that bright glow. Seeing you like this… it just concerns me. You don't look like yourself. Really."
The words acted like a cold splash of water.
Trizha's posture stiffened. She realized her mask had slipped too far, revealing the raw nerves beneath.
With a jarring, practiced motion, she forced her features back into the mold of the 'Golden Girl.'
A wide, artificial grin spread across her face, though it didn't quite reach her hollowed eyes.
"Ah-haha! Sorry, sorry!" Trizha chirped, her voice returning to that high, melodic register that felt like a lie. "I was just… tired, you know? Planning out new videos takes so much out of me. Hahaha…"
She rubbed the back of her head awkwardly.
It was a transparent performance—even the operator could see the cracks—but he was so desperate for the tension to end that he played along.
He let out a forced sigh of relief, asking her when she would post her next update, his voice trembling with a fake enthusiasm.
Zackier watched this display from the darkness, his arms crossed.
Unlike the operator, he had no intention of playing along with her theater.
"And now she masks it all again," Zackier thought, his eyes narrowing. "For a moment, I thought her cheerful self was the version of her I was supposed to cooperate with. It seems 'old is gold' after all. The original, broken version is much more valuable."
"…" Then, he paused dramatically.
"But gold doesn't last forever once it loses its sense of self. It loses value the moment it gets lost in the dark. So, I will make sure… to dig a hole deep enough for it to be lost forever."
Zackier exhaled a short, sharp breath and watched as Trizha finally turned away from the console, leaving the mini-CCTV operation house behind.
It seems like she gave the operator an answer; she won't be making an update for a while, again.
She walked toward him with the gait of a ghost, her face pale and her eyes downcast.
"...Zack…" she muttered, her voice barely audible.
"Hm? Yeah?" he replied, his voice a smooth, comforting silk.
"Let's go back," Trizha said, her shoulders slumped. "I feel… exhausted. Incredibly exhausted."
"Are you?" Zackier asked, tilting his head as he looked down at her. "Or is it that, deep inside, you are finally realizing you're empty?"
Trizha groaned, her fingers digging into her scalp in a sudden flash of frustration. "Zack, please. I don't have time for your riddles!"
"Right, right. Sorry," Zackier chuckled, though there was no warmth in the sound.
Trizha brushed past him, her lips moving as she muttered curses under her breath. Zackier simply smirked and fell into step behind her.
He could see the tremors in her hands.
This was a new side of her—a jagged, fractured thing that was ripe for the taking.
They re-entered the main hotel, passing through the bustling entertainment zone.
Despite the conclusion of the Japanese-themed events, the hallways were still choked with students seeking amusement.
The air was thick with the chatter of the upcoming Monday Midnight Prom.
Everyone had plans—schemes to stay awake, dreams of the perfect dance, a desperate desire for a high-school climax.
Trizha, however, only wanted an end.
She wanted the conflict to vanish, for the weight on her chest to evaporate.
But the tragedy of her situation was that the fire she had started could no longer be extinguished.
"...Let's go that way," Zackier said suddenly, his voice firm as he pointed toward a side corridor.
Trizha startled, her eyes darting to him. His expression was uncharacteristically thoughtful, his gaze fixed on the shadowed path.
"...What?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
"Let's just take a detour," Zackier insisted. "I believe I saw something… rather interesting down that hall."
"Oh, then why can't you just go there yourself?" Trizha snapped, her patience fraying. "Let me go back to the room on my own—"
Before she could finish, Zackier's hand clamped onto hers.
The grip was cold and unyielding.
He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his grin stretching wide as his fuchsia eyes bored into her own.
"So you're saying you want to be left vulnerable?" he whispered, his tone a low, convincing thrum. "That's not good, Trizha. You're going to make me worry."
"Zack… I'll be fine on my own—"
"And moreover," he interrupted, his voice dropping into a dark, melodic lullaby, "you'd make me feel guilty for letting my depressed princess wander off into the dark alone. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
He didn't blink.
The intensity in his gaze unsettled her, making her wonder if he was being protective or if he was simply tightening the leash.
She wanted to scream for privacy, but she also couldn't deny the terrifying truth—she was afraid of being alone with her thoughts.
"...Fine," Trizha whispered, her resistance breaking. "But just this once. Then we go back."
Zackier's grin turned mischievous as he straightened up, clearly satisfied. "Good girl. Now… shall we?"
Trizha nodded, her fingers gripping his hand tightly, though he was the one truly doing the leading.
As they turned the corner, she felt a prickle of unease.
There was nothing "interesting" here—just a few students filtering in and out of the side exits.
Zackier's movements felt forceful, his direction intentional.
She tried to think, to analyze his behavior, but her mind was a static-filled void.
She needed a break, a moment of silence, but she had lost her chance.
She was being pulled along a path she didn't choose.
Suddenly, the crowd surged, and Trizha bumped hard into someone walking in the opposite direction.
The impact caused her to stumble, and in the confusion, she realized Zackier was no longer holding her hand.
"Hey…!" a voice called out.
"S-sorry—" Trizha began, her voice shaking as she looked up to apologize.
The words died in her throat.
Her heart stopped.
Despair, cold and sharp, flooded her senses because the person standing before her had short, curly brown hair.
"Wyne?" Trizha gasped.
The student turned slowly.
It wasn't Wyne.
It was just a stranger, a fellow student with a similar cut.
The realization should have brought relief, but instead, it acted like a trigger.
The anxiety she had been suppressing exploded.
She backed away, her breath coming in ragged hitches.
"Wait… are you…?" the student's eyes went wide. "Oh my god! It's Izha!"
The shout was like a flare in the dark. Within seconds, the name 'Izha' was being whispered and shouted across the hall.
"It's Izha!"
"Is she filming?!"
"Look at her! She looks so... intense!"
Students began to swarm, their faces lit with bright, admiring smiles.
They approached her like she was a goddess descended from Olympus, their voices a cacophony of praise and requests.
Trizha felt the walls closing in.
She didn't want to speak.
She didn't want to be seen.
The sight of the curly-haired stranger had opened a wound. She felt the same paralyzing terror she felt when she looked at Nomoro Ketatsuki.
"Why do I feel this way toward Wyne?" she screamed internally.
She looked away, her eyes searching for an exit, but the crowd was a wall of bodies. And then, she saw her.
Standing in the back of the throng, a girl with a sharp bob stared at her.
Margaret?
No.
Another stranger.
Another look-alike.
The grief and anxiety reached an extreme, agonizing level. She looked at the faces of the students, but they were no longer strangers.
Her mind, fractured by guilt and exhaustion, began to overlay the faces she feared onto the crowd.
Every curly-haired girl became Wyne, accusing her with a silent gaze.
Every stoic face became Margaret, bleeding from a dislocated arm.
And every shadowed corner held Nomoro, the 'Devil' she had framed the entire time.
She wasn't being surrounded by fans. In her mind, she was being surrounded by the ghosts of the people she had betrayed.
Trizha fell to her knees, her hands slamming over her ears as she began to shake violently.
The students around her stopped, their smiles turning to confusion.
They thought this was part of a performance, a "new video" in the making.
But to Trizha, the world had become a prison of three faces.
Nomoro.
Wyne.
Margaret.
She wanted it to end.
She wanted the sky to fall and the hotel to swallow her whole.
But as she sobbed on the floor, she realized the most terrifying truth of all: she had built this hell herself, and the doors were locked from the inside.
After all… she messed up.