Trizha runs, her breath hitching in a rhythm of pure desperation.
She ignores the reflections that flicker beside her—hundreds of versions of herself marching like a ghost army toward a battlefield only God could name.
Each step she takes falls upon paths worn down by countless others who came before her, people who chose their legacies and moved on into the light.
Now, the weight of the moment shifts to her.
Deep within, three conflicting motivations pull at her soul, a triad of desires that threaten to tear her direction apart.
She holds the terrifying right of choice, a responsibility that feels heavier than the glass walls surrounding her.
She keeps running until the narrow corridors finally give way to a wider junction.
To her right, she spots a sign for a public restroom. Trizha's eyes widened with a sudden, sharp hope.
A wide grin of relief breaks across her face, her frantic pace slowing as she approaches the sanctuary.
She desperately needs to 'flush' away the clinging residue of her earlier embarrassments, to wash the panic from her skin so she can face her friends with a convincing smile.
She pushes the door open slowly, praying for a moment of solitude.
But fate is rarely so kind in a public space.
The moment she enters, the occupants turn toward her. A group of girls pause their conversations, their eyes scanning Trizha's disheveled appearance.
They look at her with a mixture of confusion and mild concern, wondering why a girl would look so haunted just to use a sink.
"H-hi..." Trizha stammers, her voice barely a whisper as she grips the door handle.
One of the students tilts her head, holding a lipstick mid-air. "Uhm... you can come in? There are stalls open."
"No, no thank you..." Trizha squeaks, her face heating up to a frantic crimson.
She retreats instantly, the sting of social awkwardness sharper than the fear of the maze.
She closes the door with agonizing slowness, trying to vanish without making another sound, her situation feeling more pathetic with every passing second.
She had expected—no, hoped—for an empty room, but the "Public" nature of the world outside her head had reasserted itself.
From the shadows of the previous hallway, Nomoro watches her retreat.
He sees her exit the bathroom almost as soon as she entered, looking even more frazzled than before.
He assumes she went in to tidy herself up but was chased out by her own shyness.
He shrugs the thought off, keeping his distance.
He continues to follow her like a silent guardian, waiting for the right moment to bridge the gap and end their long-standing conflict.
Trizha continues her trek through the mirrors, her reflections still mimicking her every frantic twitch.
She calls out for Margaret and Wyne, but her voice is hushed now, tempered by the embarrassment at the restroom.
She doesn't want to draw any more judgment from the shadows.
Eventually, her stamina reaches its breaking point. She skids to a halt, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, gasping for air.
"Geez... where...?" she wheezes, her voice cracking. "I thought they said... the mirror maze… wait, did they even announce that? I don't remember! W-where are they?"
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she catches a blur of movement.
A little boy, no older than six or seven, scrambles across a junction she just passed.
In the brief second she sees him, her heart sinks—he looks injured, his small face twisted in pain.
Not to mention… those cat-like eyes that he had the micro-second her eyes saw it.
Before she can give chase, a voice cuts through the stagnant air.
"Trizha...!"
She jolts, her heart leaping into her throat.
The voice is familiar. Well, sort… but it seemed disoriented by the glass reflections, she can't tell if it belongs to Margaret or Wyne.
She stands frozen, torn between a moral crossroads: go after the hurting child or reunite with her worried friends.
"Ugh, which one!?" she cries out, looking frantically between the two paths.
Her mind spins.
For the first time, she realizes that a wrong choice here could lead to something reckless.
She gives herself a count of five, but by three, a logic born of desperation takes hold.
"I see!" she thinks, a smile breaking through the panic. "If I find Wyne and Margaret first, we can search for the kid together. Three pairs of eyes are better than one!"
She spins around and sprints toward the path where she heard her name, praying the boy doesn't wander too far.
She has no idea that she has just made the reckless choice instead.
Nomoro emerges into the clearing just as she vanishes into the wrong corridor.
Had she chased the boy, she would have run straight into him.
Instead, he hears the thud of her retreating footsteps and follows her deeper into the maze.
***
Moments later, Trizha approaches the area where she heard her name.
But as she gets closer, suspicion begins to gnaw at her; The sharp "T" of her name is beginning to sound softer, morphing into a "K."
She rounds a final mirror and stops dead.
The voices aren't Wyne's or Margaret's.
Instead, she stumbles upon an entirely different trio.
One is a young man with a bowl haircut and black lipstick; the second is a petite girl with large, sarcastic eyes.
But it is the third figure who commands the space.
She is a tall girl, towering even over the man an average man of her age, wearing a certain purple sweater with deep "X" shaped ornament with elegant puff sleeves, and her dark hair is pulled into a flawless, black slick-back ponytail, which, when casted by light, seems to glow in dark purple.
While the first two face Trizha's hiding spot, the tall girl has her back turned, her presence alone exuding a strange, magnetic authority that makes Trizha hold her breath.
"Krisha...! Bars!" the girl in the purple sweater exclaims, her voice carrying a melodic, commanding cheer. "Finally, you two found me!"
Krisha, the sarcastic girl, huffs. "Where have you been? You're supposed to be our main reminder soon, and you can't even remind us when you're entering a mirror house!"
"Yeah," Bars adds, crossing his arms. "You kept sending us cry emojis like you were being kidnapped. You have no idea how much weight you put on our shoulders!"
The girl in the purple sweater lets out a playful, tinkling laugh. "Hehe, sorry! I saw a stall selling vanilla ice cream on the way, and I felt like it was a calling. I got a little distracted."
"Again?" Bars groans. "That's your fourth one today! Do you even care about the image you're projecting? People are starting to look up to you."
"Hey," Krisha mutters, "if you keep this up, don't expect me to manage your diet when you're in the spotlight."
The tall girl finally turns slightly, her posture radiating an effortless, regal confidence.
"Okie, but I'm beautiful regardless of the vanilla. And for the record, I only eat two a day—the other two were for 'research'!"
Trizha sighs, the air leaving her lungs in a puff of bitter disappointment.
This wasn't her rescue; it was just three strangers living a story she wasn't a part of.
Although, she did feel something about that girl in a purple sweater. Her presence felt weird in a way that felt very familiar.
It was as if she was somewhat connected to that person.
But, then again, it's just strangers living a story she wasn't part of.
She turns to leave, frustrated that she lost the injured boy for a misunderstanding.
But then, before Trizha could vanish back into the labyrinth of glass, she was halted by the same melodic, commanding voice.
"Hey, did you get turned around in here too?"
The girl in the purple sweater was looking directly at her.
She had noticed Trizha not just by sight, but by the frantic, uneven rhythm of her footsteps echoing through the narrow paths.
She stepped away from her friends, her presence feeling strangely heavy and significant, as if she were a character stepping out of a different, more grand story.
Trizha turned slowly, her face instantly flushing a deep, hot crimson. She tried to stitch together a mask of composure, forcing an awkward, shaky smile onto her lips.
"Oh, uh... n-no," Trizha stammered, her voice betraying her nerves. "I'm not lost. I was just... checking something. But thanks, anyway."
"Are you certain?" the girl in the purple sweater asked, her head tilting with a look of genuine, piercing concern. "You look more than just lost. You look... troubled. Haunted, even. We have some extra hands here; you could really use our help, you know."
"Ah, no need. Really," Trizha insisted, her heart thumping against her ribs. "I'm fine. Totally fine."
As Trizha turned to fully face the girl, their eyes met in a sudden, sharp moment of clarity.
Trizha's own pinkish-purple eyes, wide and shimmering with a hidden vulnerability, collided with the girl's aqua-colored irises—eyes that sparkled like sunlight on deep water.
In that instant, the air between them seemed to hum with a palpable, electric tension.
It was as if a mirror had been placed between their souls rather than their bodies.
Both of them felt a sudden, jarring shock of recognition.
It was a silent understanding: they were the same type of person.
They were both individuals carrying the weight of eyes that saw too much, both destined to lead others even when they themselves felt adrift.
The girl in the purple sweater stared at Trizha longer than social grace usually allowed, her gaze analyzing every flicker of emotion on Trizha's face.
Then, as if reaching a silent conclusion, she broke the tension with a bright, radiant smile.
"Okie!" she chirped, her voice returning to its playful, nonchalant tone. "Just let me know if you change your mind and need a hand, okay? You can call me—"
"Hey! You can't just act all dosey-nosey with a total stranger like that!" Bars interrupted, stepping forward to pull on the sleeve of the purple sweater. "We're in a rush, remember? Ice cream? Sanity?"
"What's the issue with being friendly?" the girl responded, turning to give Bars a smug, mischievous grin that silenced his protest. "I'm just being nice. It's a rare commodity these days."
She turned back to Trizha one last time, her smile never wavering, her aqua eyes holding a depth of kindness that felt almost overwhelming.
"Anyway, the offer stands. Just let me know. Alright?"
Without waiting for another awkward apology, she turned back to her friends, her laughter rising once more as they resumed their bickering.
Trizha stood frozen for a second, nodding her head in a daze.
"Alright. I'll let you know," Trizha whispered to the empty air, the words barely audible over the sound of her own heartbeat.
She turned around once more, her legs feeling a bit steadier as she continued her walk through the maze.
...She's nice, Trizha thought to herself, a small, genuine warmth blooming in her chest. Almost too nice for a place like this.
But then, as if summoned by her regret, the little boy appears again.
He is standing ten feet away, his back to her, his small shoulders shaking as he sobs. He hasn't moved far at all.
"...Hey there..." Trizha whispers, her voice dripping with maternal concern as she reaches out a hand.
The boy doesn't wait.
He bolts again, disappearing around a corner.
"Hey! Wait up!" Trizha groans, throwing herself back into the chase.
As she runs past the clearing, the girl in the purple sweater stops talking.
She watches Trizha's retreating back with light blue eyes that sparkle with an unnatural, piercing intelligence, even in the dim light of the maze.
There is a playful, nonchalant beauty to her face, but her gaze suggests she sees far more than a girl chasing a child.
She senses the friction in the air, the heavy destiny trailing Trizha like a shadow.
Suddenly, Nomoro bursts into the clearing, panting, his "demon" aura clashing violently with the trio's vibe.
Bars and Krisha recoil instantly, their faces turning pale.
They recognize the infamous Nomoro Ketatsuki.
"Hey, isn't that...?" Krisha whispers, her voice trembling.
"N-no way," Bars stammers, taking a step back.
Nomoro, accustomed to the fear, shuts his mouth.
He looks down, a flash of hurt crossing his eyes before he turns to leave, unwilling to cause a scene.
He is about to walk away in silence when the girl steps forward.
Unlike her friends, she doesn't flinch.
She doesn't show a flicker of fear.
Instead, she smiles—a kind, knowing smile that seems to recognize Nomoro not as a demon, but as a person.
She raises a confident arm and points toward the path Trizha just took.
"If you're looking for the girl with the blonde hair," Fenella says, her voice steady and warm, "she went that way. You should hurry; she looks like she's carrying the everything in her shoulders, haha."
Nomoro's eyes widen.
He stares at the girl in a purple sweater, stunned by her lack of prejudice. He manages a small, appreciative nod.
"Thank you... whoever you are," Nomoro says softly, before disappearing down the path.
As soon as he is gone, Bars and Krisha exhale as if they've been holding their breath for a lifetime.
"Girl! What was that!?" Bars cries out. "That was Nomoro! The demon-thingy guy!"
"Yeah," Krisha adds, grabbing Fenella's arm. "What if she's his next victim? You just handed that girl over!"
The girl in the sweater, however, stays silent for a moment, looking down the dark corridor where the two had vanished.
She sighs softly, then turns to her friends, her expression bright and unshakably optimistic as she rests a hand on her hip.
"Well... why not help him?" Fenella asks.
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!" Bars screams.
"Girl, you're an absolute idiot," Krisha moans, burying her face in her hands.
She just laugh, the sound rich and confident.
"I mean, he looked like he was the one who needed help. If he were hunting a victim, he'd be desperate and aggressive. I looked at his face, and I didn't see a demon. I saw someone who was afraid of being alone."
Krisha and Bars soften slightly, though they remain exasperated.
"You're too optimistic for your own good, Fenella," Bars sighs. "Even around a guy like that."
"Hehe, sorry. I can't help seeing the potential in people," the girl says, her light blue eyes shimmering.
"Oh, whatever," Bars says, waving a hand. "Let's just get out of here. This maze is depressing."
"Same," Krisha agrees. "I need food. Let's find a restaurant."
They turn to leave, but Krisha stops to look back at the girl in the purple sweater.
"How about you? Are you coming with us…"
She paused.
"...Fenella?"
The girl in the purple sweater, Fenella Talullah strikes a playful pose, her presence filling the hallway with a strange, prophetic light.
"Sure! As long as the restaurant has vanilla on the menu!"
The Symbol of Acceptance.