The scene shifts—the same world, the same recurring tragedy, yet viewed through a different lens.
Previously, the story breathed within the restricted, quiet walls of a private home; now, it unfolds within the clinical luxury of a high-end dormitory at the La Luna Sangre.
Inside, a teenager of sixteen sat at the center of the frame.
She was of average height, blessed with long, wavy blonde hair that shimmered like trails of captured sunlight where the morning rays hit it through the dorm windows.
Done right, she possessed a potential for breathtaking beauty, yet today, she looked anything but radiant.
She did not look childish; instead, she looked tragically matured, her features carrying a weight that age alone could not bestow.
She lay flat on the bed in the middle of the morning, sleeping in a heavy, silent stillness.
It was fortunate that, for once, her mind had granted her a reprieve.
She no longer had to worry about the sudden, violent bombardment of regretful memories that usually shattered her peace—memories of actions that had happened so recently, yet felt like a lifetime ago.
Everything had moved too fast.
Suddenly, Trizha bolted upright. She sat in the center of the mattress, her eyes darting frantically around the room in search of a clock.
Panic flared in her chest, a phantom alarm ringing in her ears.
After several seconds of frantic searching, she found nothing.
She realized then that the sound had been a trick of her imagination—a subconscious ghost of an alarm waking her from a deep, unearned slumber.
She took a long, shaky breath, her shoulders dropping as she recognized her surroundings.
She was in a hotel dorm, not the bedroom of her childhood.
There was no alarm because there was no schedule left for her to keep.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hovering over the cold floor before she stood up.
Usually, her mornings were punctuated by a dramatic, wide-mouthed yawn, but today it was light—a silent, cautious intake of air.
In the world she used to inhabit, this was the moment her adoptive mother, Claria, would be screaming her name from the bottom of the stairs, demanding she come down for breakfast before she missed the 10:30 am cutoff or ended up late for school.
But this time, there was only silence.
The lack of noise made her heart ache with a brief, sharp confusion before she forced herself to shrug it off.
Yet, as she stood there, an odd similarity drifted through the vents.
She could smell food—a rich, savory aroma that was heart-achingly familiar. Her "blank" purple eyes widened.
Nostalgia hit her like a physical blow.
Her thoughts immediately flew to the cook back at her home, but she suppressed the thought.
It was just a coincidence.
It had to be someone else.
She took one step forward, then another.
On her third step, her gaze caught the common hotel mirror mounted beside the wardrobe.
She stopped.
The girl in the glass looked dry, faded, and lame.
The energy that used to radiate from her like a sun had been extinguished.
But as she stared, she felt a grim sense of fortune.
Starting today, she was taking a break from the person she had been forced to be.
She was done enduring the consequences of her own facade.
"I've taken a break," she thought, her reflection staring back with hollow eyes. "But at what cost? I traded everything for this silence. I traded myself."
She opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living area, her hand lingering on the doorframe as if she were afraid to let go of the last room she knew.
Her mind began to spiral, a rhythmic, chanting thought drummed against her skull.
She had lost herself. She had lost everything.
She had withered.
She became withered.
She became withered.
She became withered.
She became withered.
SHE BECAME WITHERED.
SHE BECAME WITHERED.
SHE BECAME—
"Don't worry, you haven't lost yourself."
The sudden weight of a large hand covered the top of Trizha's head.
Her eyes snapped wide, perhaps wider than they had been since she woke up.
The touch was warm and incredibly gentle, radiating a quiet comfort that seemed to anchor her spiraling thoughts.
She slowly tilted her head back, her blank eyes traveling up until they found him.
Nomoro Ketatsuki was standing right beside her, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips.
"I can still see you," he said firmly.
He let go of her head before she could find the words to respond, walking past her to continue sweeping the floor.
He moved with a domestic ease, the broom rhythmic against the tiles.
Trizha stared at his back, her expression shifting from blankness to a sudden, grateful smirk.
"That's right," she thought, her legs beginning to move as she followed him.
With every step, she remembered his actions from the day before.
She remembered the weight of the umbrella he held over her in the rain, the way he had handled her broken spirit at her lowest point, and the impossible forgiveness he had offered.
"I shouldn't linger in these naive, negative thoughts," she realized. "I abandoned the 'old' me, and so what? As long as someone like him can still see the person underneath... then, yes, I am still here."
She followed Nomoro into the kitchen area, her gaze filled with a new sense of respect.
When they reached the table, the source of the nostalgic aroma was revealed: a perfectly well-done, steaming omelette rice.
Trizha's eyes practically sparkled at the sight of the delicacy.
She found herself almost drooling before she caught herself and shook her head.
"Since when did you know how to cook this well?" she asked, her body moving on instinct to pull out a chair.
She sat down, the food in front of her looking like a masterpiece.
Nomoro followed suit, sitting across from her with that same soft expression.
"A few years ago," Nomoro responded, watching her intently. "I can't quite remember the exact date, but I've had practice."
Trizha grabbed a spoon and took a tentative bite.
The flavor exploded on her tongue—rich, savory, and comforting.
Her cheeks flushed as she tried to maintain her composure despite the intensity of the taste.
"You chose a food course for your electives, didn't you?" Trizha asked, looking up at him.
"I guess so," Nomoro replied, leaning back slightly. "People tend to see me as a 'skilled young man' or something equally dramatic. But I just enjoy trying new dishes and training until I get them right."
Trizha nodded, taking another bite, savoring the warmth.
Then, the silence of the room settled over her, and she felt the weight of the situation.
She put her spoon down, her eyes dropping to the table, unable to meet his gaze.
"This is our first... real conversation, isn't it?" she asked, her voice turning shy and awkward.
Nomoro raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Not really. We had a very 'real' conversation when you first came up to me and demanded we collaborate."
"No! No!" Trizha squealed, her face turning a bright shade of red as she pointed a finger at him to cut him off. "Don't you dare remind me of how I tried to persuade you that day! That was an entirely different person!"
Nomoro smirked, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. "Oh? So you actually get embarrassed by your own actions?"
"I thought you understood me!" Trizha snapped, though there was no heat in it. "You should have known that being an 'Influencer' was just a decision, a role I played. It wasn't a personal desire. Not a goal."
She grabbed her spoon and began munching on the omelette with aggressive, reckless speed, trying to hide her face.
Nomoro watched her, a soft laugh escaping him.
"Fair point," he conceded. "But... that also proves something."
Trizha slowed her frantic eating, her head tilting in confusion. "Proves what?"
"You should have already known," Nomoro said, his eyes twinkling as he leaned back further.
"But I don't!"
"That sounds like your problem, not mine."
"Tell me, Nomoro!"
"Not a chance."
"Please...!" Trizha pleaded, her dramatic flair returning for a split second.
"Still no..."
"Are you reconsidering? You look like you're reconsidering!"
"Not. A. Chance."
"Ugh!"
Trizha let out a loud, theatrical groan of defeat, slumping in her chair before looking at him with mock frustration. "Is this déjà vu? I feel like we've had this exact back-and-forth before."
Nomoro shrugged. "Beats me."
Trizha rolled her eyes, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You're more annoying than that one classmate I had in elementary school who kept asking for his crayons back... but hey, at least you're showing some personality other than being a 'wise old gypsy.' To think, people actually call you a demon."
"Don't forget that you were one of the first people to lead that charge," Nomoro reminded her, his tone light but pointed.
"Was I? Well, what are you going to call me in return? An angel? Please do, I'd love to be called an angel," she teased, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand.
Nomoro huffed, his expression turning intrigued, seemingly unfazed by her teasing.
"Huh. So this is how you and Wyne get into your fights."
The mention of Wyne's name acted like a bucket of ice water.
Trizha froze, the teasing smile vanishing instantly.
She hadn't heard that name in what felt like an eternity, and the sudden mention of her best friend sent a sharp backlash of guilt through her mind.
Her eyes went pale, and she leaned away, the memory of her cruelty toward Wyne flooding back.
"Hey, Nomoro..." Trizha's voice was now soft, vulnerable.
Nomoro's eyes widened slightly at the change in her tone.
He sat still, waiting for her to continue.
"I'm taking a 'break' now, right? From everything?"
Nomoro nodded slowly, choosing to remain silent, sensing the fragility of the moment.
"Well... while I'm trying to make newer, less selfish choices," Trizha said, her hand moving to rest her chin on her palm as she stared at nothing. "I should... I should definitely start making a major change to who I am."
.
.
.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Nomoro said flatly.
.
.
.
Trizha's gaze snapped to his.
Confusion and a hint of indignation fueled her.
Why wouldn't he want her to change? Wasn't a "break" the perfect time to fix what was broken?
"Change is natural," Nomoro followed, his eyes locking onto hers. "And you are trying to rush it."
Trizha raised an eyebrow.
"Rushing it? But now is the only time I have! Why not now?"
"Because forcing change doesn't work," he responded, looking down at the table and entwining his fingers. "You don't force a personality shift just because something bad happened. That's just another mask."
"But the 'bad' part is over, isn't it?" Trizha argued.
Nomoro shook his head slowly, a thoughtful look on his face. "Yes, and no. But that's not the point. You're trying to 'buy' a new version of yourself to escape the guilt; that's the bad part."
Nomoro reached out and took a spoonful of her omelette, letting the flavors settle on his tongue before speaking one last time.
"To truly change is not to expect it or plan it, but to simply… let it happen."
Trizha considered his words, the weight of them settling in her mind.
She nodded slowly. "Alright. So you're just telling me to be patient."
She leaned back, a glint of her old fire returning to her eyes as she glared at him playfully. "Also... how do you know about how I fight with Wyne? That we tease each other like that?"
Nomoro raised an eyebrow, looking at her as if she had forgotten the most basic fact of their lives.
"We're in the same class section, Trizha," he said, his voice dry. "You two do it every single day. It's hard to miss."
Realization dawned on Trizha's face, and she let out an embarrassed little laugh. "Oh! Right... yeah. Same class. Haha... I knew that."
Trizha took another deliberate bite of the omelette, a simple gesture intended to anchor herself and hide the lingering heat of embarrassment flushing her cheeks.
Across from her, Nomoro remained a silent observer from the sidelines, that characteristic, subtle smile still ghosting across his lips.
She chewed slowly, finding herself lost in the sensory experience.
The aroma was earthy and rich.
The taste was a perfect balance of savory and sweet.
The seasoning was precise, hitting every note without overpowering the palate.
All of it.
She analyzed every single detail with a focused, silent effort.
It was the least she could do—a small "favor" of recognition for the man who had pulled her out of the rain.
But as the flavors settled, a realization dawned on her.
Food of this caliber didn't happen by accident; it required years of disciplined skill and tireless practice.
Curiosity finally won out over her shyness.
"Oh, and uh… by the way," Trizha started, her voice regaining some of its cheerful lilt, "did your parents teach you how to cook? Because if they did, I seriously have to give them credit! This is incredible!"
She hummed a small, happy tune, already moving her spoon for another bite.
She was so caught up in the rhythm of the meal that she didn't even wait for his answer before filling her mouth again.
Because of that, she missed the shift in the air.
She didn't see the way Nomoro flinched for a microscopic, jagged second the moment she mentioned them.
His parents.
His relatives.
His family.
"No," Nomoro responded.
The word was short, and while it wasn't harsh, the gentle warmth that usually padded his tone had evaporated, leaving behind something cool and clinical. "I taught myself everything I know."
Trizha's eyes lit up, her mouth still full as she blinked at him in genuine shock.
She swallowed quickly, leaning forward over the table.
"Wait, seriously? No teacher at all? And it's still this good?!"
"...Yeah. I guess," he muttered, his gaze dropping momentarily to the table.
"Wow! Nomoro, you're actually talented! Like, legitimately gifted!"
Trizha began to clap her hands together, a bright, rhythmic sound that filled the small kitchen.
She was genuinely amused and impressed by his hidden depth.
As she cheered, she saw it—a faint, rising color on his face.
At first, she thought it was a blush born of embarrassment, the kind of reaction a shy person has to unwanted attention.
But as she studied the set of his jaw and the way his eyes softened, she realized it was a whole different story.
He felt… praised.
He felt truly, deeply appreciated.
The "Demon" of the school, the man people whispered about in the hallways, seemed to bloom under the simple weight of a compliment.
He couldn't help the way his lips curved upward, or the way his voice carried a new, appreciative weight.
"Thank you, Trizha," he said, his smile turning bright and genuine.
It was a fluttering, unexpected sight.
Deep beneath the terrifying reputation and the imposing physical presence was just a man who hungered for the simple validation of his efforts.
He wanted to be seen, not feared.
However, in his moment of quiet reflection, he failed to notice that Trizha had already demolished the rest of the meal he had prepared for her.
"Yum! Seconds, please!" she chirped, holding out her empty plate with a demanding grin.
Nomoro sat there for a heartbeat, stunned by her sudden surge in appetite, before he gave a small, breathless laugh.
He stood up and took the plate, heading back to the stove without a second thought.
Suddenly, Trizha reached into her pocket and, in a bizarrely impressive feat of physics, pulled out a full-sized karaoke microphone.
"And after I eat, we're singing!" she declared, brandishing the mic like a scepter. "It's been way too long since I've had a proper Karaoke session!"
Once more, Nomoro found himself caught off guard by her sheer unpredictability.
In a matter of mere minutes, Trizha was transforming.
Her happiness was returning in waves, each one stronger than the last.
It was like feeling a sharp, cold breeze pass through you, only for a warm, steady wind to follow immediately after.
This was the harvest of his labor.
This was the direct result of his… interference.
And as he looked at her, watching the light return to her eyes, he knew he didn't regret a single second of the risks he had taken.
"Yeah," he said, his own excitement beginning to mirror hers. "Let's sing it all out."
The two of them began to lose themselves in the trivial joy of the moment, the walls of the dorm providing a temporary sanctuary from the world outside.
They didn't know about the girl found on the floor a few hallways away.
They didn't know that the sanctity of the La Luna Sangre had been breached.
They didn't know that beings of a higher order were already moving the pieces on the board.
But…
…in this fragment of time, none of that mattered.
The only thing of consequence was the fragile, new smile appearing in the deepest, darkest hole of a wounded heart.
And they weren't entirely alone in their realization.
Standing just outside the door frame of the apartment was Margaret.
She remained hidden in the shadows of the hallway, her back pressed against the wall as she listened to the sounds of laughter and the clinking of plates from within.
As the muffled sound of Trizha's voice reached her, Margaret didn't barge in.
She didn't seek to interrupt.
Instead, a simple, soft smile spread across her face—a look of quiet peace for the friend she thought she had lost.