Through the sprawling, manicured grounds of the hotel, Margaret sprinted with a desperate, white-knuckled grip on the picture frame Trizha had given her.
Her breath came in shallow, jagged pants, a sharp contrast to the celebratory atmosphere beginning to bloom around her.
She hurried past the towering skyscraper at the heart of the complex—a glass-and-steel monolith dedicated entirely to the Prom event.
Below the tower, a frantic hive of activity was underway.
Hundreds of workers adjusted floral arrangements and tested sound systems, while a conspicuous number of guards patrolled the perimeter.
Margaret's eyes darted between the security details, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"What's going on?" she wondered, her pace slowing just enough to observe. "There are more guards here than at a government summit... and they aren't even focused on the Prom tower. They're fanning out, watching the perimeter like they're expecting an invasion. I thought guarding the VIPs was their top priority."
Pushing the intrusive thoughts aside, she reached the main threshold of the hotel.
After a brief, tense exchange with the guards at the gate—where she had to state her intent to leave for a private meeting—she was allowed through.
The transition from the luxury of the hotel to the vastness of the parking area felt like crossing into a different world.
She moved across a stone bridge that spanned a decorative moat, her destination near the tree line where Wyne was supposed to be waiting.
However, she was not as alone as she believed.
Trailing several yards behind her, a figure draped in a heavy, charcoal cloak clung to the deep shadows of the stone alcoves.
Every time the man moved, shifting from one dark alleyway to the next to keep her in his sight, a wide, predatory grin split his face.
It was a look of pure, unadulterated malice.
As Margaret neared the meetup area, she came to a sudden halt, her boots crunching on the gravel.
Sensing her stillness, the cloaked man also stopped, melting into the mouth of a nearby alley.
He reached into the folds of his garment and withdrew a long, serrated knife.
The blade caught the dying embers of the sunset, gleaming with a cold, golden fire.
Fresh crimson liquid—still warm—dripped from his other hand, pattering rhythmically onto the pavement.
He waited with the patience of a spider, coiled and ready to lunge the moment her back was fully turned.
But as he prepared to spring, he froze.
Margaret's posture had changed.
But she wasn't just stopped; she was paralyzed.
Through the gap in the alley, the man saw her face—a mask of absolute, soul-crushing terror.
The cloaked figure hesitated, his grin faltering.
He took a cautious step back into the gloom, deciding to observe whatever force had managed to petrify his prey before he could.
Margaret stared forward, the picture frame clutched so tightly against her chest that the edges dug into her skin.
She felt like a statue, her muscles locked in a state of chemical rigor mortis.
Cold sweat beaded on her forehead and slid down her temple.
Her "danger sense," usually a subtle hum, was now a screaming siren in her mind, demanding she not make a single sound.
After all, she had accidentally walked directly into the path of someone in front of her… and that someone was the world's most formidable soldier: General Koby Frantzes.
The evening breeze seemed to die in an instant, leaving the air stagnant and heavy.
The very atmosphere around the General felt thickened, as if his sheer presence had increased the local gravity.
"I... I can't move," Margaret's thoughts raced, her pulse hammering in her ears. "This pressure... my body is screaming at me to play dead. How did he get here? He wasn't in my line of sight a second ago... it was as if he simply materialized out of the ether."
Her knees began to shake as she realized the insurmountable chasm of power between herself and the man standing ten feet away.
"What are you doing out here?" Koby asked.
The question was a sharp crack of thunder in the silence.
Margaret tried to pull her voice together, wanting to sound like a normal student, but her vocal cords betrayed her.
"I-I came here t-to... to m-meet up with a friend, sir," she stammered, her eyes downcast, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
Koby narrowed his eyes, his purple irises—so strikingly similar to Trizha's—scanning her with clinical intensity.
"State your name," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave into a tone used for battlefield interrogations.
"M-Margaret Sensha, sir," she whispered.
She lowered her head further, instinctively bowing before the man known as the Hero of the World.
"I see. You're friends with Trizha Frantzes," Koby noted, his voice softening only a fraction.
Margaret's heart skipped a beat.
The mention of her friend confirmed her suspicions.
The blonde hair, the regal bearing, those unmistakable eyes—this man wasn't just a general; he was family.
She lifted her head slightly, peering through her bangs to confirm the resemblance.
It was uncanny.
Koby turned his head, looking toward the distant hotel gates before speaking again.
"If you plan to meet a friend, I suggest you abort that plan immediately," Koby stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Return to the hotel's dormitory at once. My men are currently establishing a perimeter around the entire La Luna Sangre complex. As of this moment, the hotel is under 'Quarantine' by order of the military and the federal government. No one enters, and no one leaves until further notice."
Margaret's confusion bubbled over, momentarily overriding her fear. "Quarantine? Are you saying... is there an infection? A virus in the hotel?"
"No and yes," Koby responded enigmatically. "We are not authorized to disclose the specific nature of the threat to civilians, but I can assure you that we are here for a reason that is as vital as it is absurd."
Margaret let out a long, shaky sigh.
She knew when she was beat.
There was no point in arguing with a man who commanded armies.
She nodded in silent agreement, turned on her heel, and began to run back toward the safety of the hotel walls.
From a distance, tucked away in the backseat of her father's car, Wyne watched Margaret's retreating form.
"Was that your friend?" her father asked from the driver's seat.
He looked through the rearview mirror, his eyes tracking the girl in the dark blanket.
"Yeah," Wyne said, her voice small. "She told me she had something to show me, but..."
Wyne trailed off, her gaze shifting to the window.
The parking lot, once nearly empty, was now teeming with soldiers.
Humvees and armored transports were pulling into position, effectively trapping them in the lot until the midnight deadline.
"...it might cause too much suspicion if we try to meet now," Wyne continued. "The military doesn't look like they're here for a drill. Margaret probably realized the same thing."
Her father nodded grimly.
While the presence of the military usually signaled safety, the way they moved—efficient, silent, and tense—suggested they were hunting something, not guarding it.
"This is General Koby, speaking."
The voice crackled from a walkie-talkie held by a soldier standing just a few feet from their car.
Wyne leaned toward the door, silently rolling down the window just an inch to eavesdrop.
"Dead man found in the north alley. I repeat, we have a fresh casualty. Non-military. Senior citizen."
Wyne felt a jolt of ice water run down her spine.
The soldiers nearby immediately began checking their weapons, several of them breaking into a sprint toward the north side of the grounds.
The realization hit her with sickening clarity: the military wasn't here to prevent a crisis.
They were already in the middle of one.
Back at the north alley, General Koby lowered his radio.
He looked down at the gruesome sight at his feet.
A senior citizen, likely a local passerby or a hotel groundskeeper, was slumped against the brick wall.
It was a massacre.
Blood had been sprayed with such force that it reached the second-story windows, painting the alley in a horrific shade of maroon.
It looked less like a murder and more like the work of a frenzied beast.
Koby scoffed, his lip curling in disgust.
He looked past the body at the message written on the wall.
The killer had used the victim's own blood to scrawl a jagged, mocking sentence across the masonry.
"Damned Alter Being," Koby muttered, his eyes flashing with a mix of rage and confusion. "What kind of sick, fictional game are you playing at, now?"
He stared at the words, the blood still wet enough to drip down the brick:
「The 7th was here. I am Reality.」