CHAPTER 12: DYNAMICAL END
***
The hours bled away as the moon climbed high over La Luna Sangre Hotel.
The festive lights of the Japanese park event had long since flickered out, and the jubilant music had been replaced by the sterile hum of hotel air conditioning.
Students had retreated to their dorms, the chaotic energy of the "incident" settling into a heavy, stagnant silence that permeated the hallways.
In one of the luxury hotel suites, Wyne's eyes fluttered open.
Her vision was a fractured kaleidoscope of ceiling lights and shadows, her irises twitching as they struggled to process the stillness of the room.
A dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind her temples, a physical remnant of whatever force had torn the world away from her.
She groaned softly, pushing herself into a sitting position.
Her hand rose instinctively to her forehead, her skin feeling clammy and cold.
"What just happened...?" she whispered to the empty air, her voice sounding like dry parchment.
The blurriness in her gaze slowly dissolved, revealing the familiar, minimalist decor of the hotel suite she shared with Margaret.
For a heartbeat, she felt a wave of relief wash over her.
She was safe.
She was home.
Then, the floodgates opened.
The image of Trizha pointing her finger, the look on Nomoro's face, and that horrific, swirling purple sphere—it all rushed back with the force of a tidal wave.
Panic, sharp and jagged, pierced her chest.
She threw the covers off and scrambled out of bed, her legs feeling like lead as she sprinted toward the common area.
"Trizha!?" she shouted, her voice thick with alarm.
She skidded to a halt in the doorway, her breath hitching in her throat.
There, bathed in the soft glow of the living room lamps, sat Trizha.
She was lounging on the couch, looking perfectly composed, as if the violence of the afternoon had been nothing more than a fever dream.
"Oh, hey Wyne! You're finally up," Trizha said, her lips curling into a bright, effortless smile. "How are you feeling? You gave us quite a scare when you fainted."
Wyne blinked, stunned by the sheer normalcy of Trizha's tone.
There wasn't a hair out of place, nor a hint of guilt in those purple eyes.
"I'm... I'm feeling fine, I guess," Wyne replied shyly, her mind racing.
She felt a strange, nagging sense of wrongness.
She turned toward the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water to clear the metallic taste of sleep from her mouth.
As she crossed the threshold, she nearly collided with a tall, solid frame. She gasped, looking up to meet the downward gaze of Zackier.
He stood there with a casual, predatory grace, a soft smile playing on his lips as he surveyed her disheveled state.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Zackier remarked, his voice smooth and comforting. "Does that… head of yours still hurt, or did the sleep do its job?"
"Oh—uhm, no... no, I'm really fine, Zack," Wyne stammered, intimidated by his looming presence.
"Hmph, I see. Good." Zackier's smile widened slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, since you're back on your feet and clearly coherent, would you do me a small favor? You're perfectly free to decline, of course."
Wyne hesitated, her instincts screaming that she wasn't in the right condition for one of Zackier's "favors," but her loyalty to the group won out.
"I'm still a bit lightheaded... but fine. What is it?"
"Excellent."
Zackier leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper that sent a shiver down Wyne's spine.
He raised an index finger, pointing subtly toward the kitchen table.
There sat Margaret.
She looked like a hollowed-out shell of herself.
Her shoulders were hunched, her gaze fixed with a terrifying intensity on the glowing screen of her phone.
She looked utterly drained like the last time she saw her, her mental exhaustion manifesting as a heavy shroud around her.
"See your 'other' friend over there?" Zackier whispered in Wyne's ear. "She's been 'down' for a good while now. Trizha and I have both tried to offer some comfort, but it's like talking to a stone wall. Not a single word has come out of her mouth since we got back."
Wyne looked at Margaret, a pang of sympathy hitting her. "Margaret...? Yeah, I noticed she was acting strange even before... before everything went wrong."
"Exactly," Zackier purred, leaning back with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You happen to be much closer to her than Trizha or I could ever hope to be. You're the 'best friend,' aren't you? I thought maybe you could be the one to... fix her."
Wyne nodded slowly, a sense of duty settling over her. "Yeah. I'll talk to her."
Zackier stepped aside to let her pass, the smirk on his face growing sharper.
Wyne started toward the table, her eyes briefly flickering back toward the couch.
She saw Trizha laughing at something on the TV, and a chilling thought crossed her mind: What is she faking that smile for? Why is she acting like nothing happened?
She pushed the thought away and focused on the girl at the table.
As she approached, she noticed that Margaret wasn't just still; she was vibrating.
It wasn't an aggressive shake, but a soft, rhythmic tremor, as if her internal gears were grinding against one another.
It reminded Wyne of the trauma she had seen in Trizha before, but this was colder—more silent.
"Margaret?" Wyne asked softly, placing a hand near her friend's arm. "Are you okay? You've been staring at that screen so long you're starting to look pixelated."
Margaret didn't flinch.
She didn't even acknowledge Wyne's presence.
Her thumbs were frozen over the glass of her phone, which was currently playing a video on a loop.
"Oh, just a video..." Wyne murmured, her curiosity piqued by the grim set of Margaret's jaw. "Can I... can I take a look?"
Wyne reached out, her fingers gently brushing against the device.
To her surprise, Margaret didn't resist.
She didn't pull away or snap at her.
She simply let her hand go limp, allowing Wyne to take the phone.
As soon as the device left her grip, Margaret turned her head away, staring blankly at the dark kitchen window.
Wyne lifted the phone, her brow furrowed in confusion.
The video was a shaky, amateur recording—one of dozens published by students in the last few hours.
As the footage played, Wyne's heart seemed to stop.
The camera was focused on the plaza outside the Mirror Maze.
There was Trizha, her face a mask of artificial terror, her finger pointed directly at Nomoro's chest like a loaded gun.
Wyne watched, paralyzed, as her best friend shamelessly shouted the accusation—the lie that would destroy a boy's life—without a single tremor of hesitation in her voice.
The audio was clear, capturing the gasps of the crowd and the sound of the first blow landing on Nomoro.
The phone felt like a hot coal in Wyne's hand.
She looked from the screen to the girl on the couch smiling at the TV, and finally back to Margaret, who was still shaking in the dark.
This became the very moment when Wyne had decided to do something underneath that deadpan look in her face.