Trizha's world had narrowed down to a terrifying kaleidoscope of faces that weren't really there.
The voices of the praising students felt like the rhythmic pounding of a war drum against her skull.
Desperate, she lifted her head and spotted a sliver of the floor between a forest of legs.
Without a word, the "Greatest Influencer of Malacca City" dropped to her hands and knees.
She began to crawl.
She scrambled between the shins and shoes of the onlookers, her movements frantic and animalistic.
The students above her didn't see a breakdown; they saw a performance.
They laughed and cheered, some even filming her as she disappeared beneath them, assuming this was some bizarre, high-concept bit for her next viral video.
They were entirely, cruelly unaware that the girl beneath their feet was suffocating on her own heart.
Finally, she broke through the edge of the circle.
She didn't look back to see if Zackier was watching.
She didn't look back to see if the "ghosts" were following.
She simply ran.
She sprinted through the labyrinth of the hotel corridors, her breath coming in jagged, wheezing sobs.
When she reached her room, she fumbled with the key card, her hands shaking so violently it took three tries to trigger the green light.
She threw herself inside and slammed the door with a force that rattled the frames on the walls.
She engaged the deadbolt, the chain, and the latch in a blur of motion before leaning her back against the cold wood.
She was terrified.
She was traumatized.
But more than anything, she was tired.
So, so tired.
Her mind was a frayed wire, sparking with the lingering images of Wyne's curls, Margaret's stoic gaze, and Nomoro's hollow eyes.
They were everywhere—etched into the grain of the wood, lurking in the shadows of the curtains.
Moving like a somnambulist, she drifted into the bathroom.
Her clothes felt like lead, like a second skin made of guilt.
She peeled them off, her entire frame quaking, and stepped into the shower stall.
She cranked the handle until the water was a stinging, torrential downpour, expecting—hoping—that the sheer pressure would wash the familiar faces away.
But It didn't.
The water cascaded over her, but the itch in her scalp remained.
It felt as though their eyes were burrowed under her skin.
She reached up with both hands, her fingernails digging into her scalp as she scratched with a desperate, self-destructive fervor.
The rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of the water hitting the floor tiles hummed in her ears, but the tears falling from her eyes were hotter and heavier.
She gripped her head so tightly her knuckles turned white, trying to crush the memories within.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made the "them" more vivid.
She could see their index fingers, a thousand versions of them, all pointing down at her in a silent, accusatory circle.
She shook her head violently, spray flying in every direction, but the hallucination wouldn't break.
She tried to scream, but the water filled her mouth, choking her.
And then... she stopped.
She stood perfectly still, her chest heaving as she forced herself to breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
She concentrated on the sensation of the air entering her lungs, trying to drown out the internal noise.
Slowly, the frantic beat of her heart began to decelerate.
The imagined voices of her former friends lowered to a dull, distant murmur.
The tremors that had racked her limbs subsided, leaving her feeling hollow and numb.
She panted for a few more moments, the steam rising around her like a shroud.
She took one final, massive breath and tilted her head back. She faced the ceiling, letting the water collide directly with her face.
Her blonde hair, which usually shimmered like spun gold, was now a sodden, dark curtain that completely obscured her purple eyes, and that same eye became darker.
Then, the silence of the bathroom was broken by something far worse than a sob.
A smile.
A smile spread across her lips.
It was bright.
It was wide.
It was ridiculously, terrifyingly unsettling.
Then, a small snicker escaped her, bubbling up into a full-blown laugh.
She was lost in the moment, a clear sign of a mind that had finally snapped under the weight of its own contradictions.
It was a calmness born of total disconnection.
She lifted her right hand, covering her hair-shrouded eyes even further as she laughed through the twin streams of tears and shower water.
"That's right... that's right," she whispered to the empty room, her voice a jagged melody.
"Just smile! Smile for the audience, Trizha. You have to entertain them. Give them that bright, beautiful face they paid to see!"
She stepped closer to the wall, her forehead nearly touching the tiles as she continued to giggle.
"The conflict is lost! Lost! It's gone! And surely, it won't come back for me to deal with. I don't have to face it if I don't want to! It's buried! It's dead!"
She leaned her head back again, the water slicking her hair down her back.
"It is just as Zackier told me. They won't stop for me, no matter how much I chase them. There's no point in trying to fix it. There's no point in looking back. I just have to move on... yes... it's time to move on. The conflict is already lost, and I'm the winner because I'm the one left standing!"
Her laughter grew louder, bouncing off the porcelain and glass.
"I don't have to go and apologize. No more interruptions! No more guilt! It's finally time for me again. Just me!"
She gripped the shower curtain, her knuckles white.
"No matter how many gallons of water fill my eyes... no matter how long their ghosts linger in my mind seeking refuge... I will ignore them. I will walk right past their corpses, I will enter the stage, and I will smile until my face aches! After all…"
She parted her lips, stretching the smile until it was a grotesque caricature of joy.
She reached up with both thumbs, hooking them into the corners of her mouth and pulling the skin outward, forcing a widened, cheerful facade while the tears continued to flow like an endless river.
"...That's what it means to be an Influencer... right?"