Time skip, to the high-end dormitory corridors of the La Luna Sangre Hotel.
The walls were lined with expensive dark wood, and the carpeting absorbed most of the sound, giving the atmosphere an artificial hush.
Students milled about, a mixture of casual conversation, nervous fidgeting near their doors, and frantic searches for their assigned rooms.
Trizha, Wyne, and Margaret were part of the search party, navigating the polished halls.
"Room 187… where is it…" Trizha muttered, squinting at the scrap paper slip clutched tightly in her palm.
Wyne stumbled slightly, catching herself on the wall. Her cheeks were noticeably red and puffy—a painful souvenir from T. Myrcella's earlier, over-enthusiastic efforts to slap her back to full consciousness.
"Trizha, we're still in the seventy to ninety row, aren't we?" Wyne asked, her voice slightly muffled. "Why are you already looking for the exact number here?"
"Duh, to feel special and advanced, of course," Trizha responded, leaning back dramatically and tossing her sleek hair.
Her smirk was theatrical and undeniably sassy. "I'm channeling that high-vibrational, heavenly mood, you know?"
"The heck is she talking about…" Wyne thought, letting out a silent, weary sigh.
The frustration from Trizha's antics minutes ago still hadn't completely worn off, compounded by the stinging pain in her face.
Wyne turned, noticing Margaret several steps behind, absorbed in her phone like a student glued to an iPad. Her brow was furrowed with unusual concentration.
"Hey Margaret, what's got your attention so early? Is that... military news?"
Margaret startled, lifting her head quickly. She stopped walking, her phone screen dimming. "Oh! I… I just… uhm…" Her face was pale, her usual cheeriness muted.
Wyne's eyes immediately sparkled with misdirected excitement. She leaned in conspiratorially, a wide, knowing grin stretching across her face.
"Don't tell me you're looking at a post about a new boy band, or maybe a scandalous celeb leak—"
"No," Margaret cut in, her tone flat. "Just some news about a new military deployment and their strategic movements overseas towards here in Malaysia. General Koby is apparently on the lead…"
Wyne's expectant face crumbled. She swung her hand dismissively in exaggerated boredom. "Oh, that's so boring—wait. Why on earth would you be interested in the logistics of the army? Aren't you more into, you know, pop culture or horror stuff?"
"I mean… they protect and serve the country," Margaret said simply. "I'm just interested in what they—"
Wyne cut her off again, pulling her face close in a mocking, teasing way, her arms crossed smugly.
"Interested in their muscular figures, eh? The strong, disciplined type? Don't worry, darling, we've all been there—no need to hide your thirst."
Margaret didn't flinch. Her eyes, usually so light, held an unnerving clarity.
"No, Wyne. I'm just interested in what country they are going to invade next."
Wyne and Margaret stared at each other. The playful atmosphere dissolved into a vacuum of silence, Wyne's smugness melting into pure, blank bewilderment.
The unreadable silence stretched, heavy and long.
Wyne broke the staring contest first, whirling around. Her expression was now openly terrified.
She practically sprinted to catch up with Trizha, the silence having lasted just long enough for the full, chilling implication of Margaret's statement to sink in.
Wyne caught Trizha's shoulder. "Hey Trizha, since you're in such a 'heavenly mood' for special treatment, why aren't you streaming a video right now?"
The word "vlogging" was like a cold splash of water.
Trizha's forced cheerful expression evaporated, replaced by nervous chuckles and a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead.
She glanced around the corridor as if searching for an escape route, remembering the sight of Nomoro just moments ago.
"Oh, that? Nah… I just… you know, not in the mood for that," Trizha stammered, fiddling with the room slip.
Wyne frowned, unconvinced. "Is that so? You seemed so prepared for content just earlier. What's the real deal?"
"Oh, please, it's nothing," Trizha insisted, her voice tight. "I just…"
Wyne, misinterpreting the struggle completely, suddenly placed a hand on Trizha's shoulder, her face radiating a profound, if misplaced, sense of sympathy and understanding.
"I know, I know. It's okay," Wyne said, nodding wisely. "Your battery is dead, and you forgot your emergency power bank. It happens. We've all had to cancel a legendary stream due to a stupid piece of tech. Don't worry about it."
Trizha blinked, utterly confused by this convenient fabrication. "...Hah?"
The sudden ding of the elevator door opening down the hall interrupted Trizha's protest.
Several students stepped out. Wyne seized the opportunity, quickly grabbing Trizha by the shoulders from behind and shoving her toward the still-open elevator car.
"Anyways, off you go! I know how you feel, so run off! Meet up later after you're settled and comfortable!" Wyne declared, pushing her friend inside nonchalantly.
"W-wait!" Trizha protested, stumbling over her luggage.
But it was too late. The elevator door hissed shut, leaving Trizha alone with her bags in the silent, polished steel box.
She looked around for a moment, then took a series of rapid, shaky deep breaths. This was it.
Her mind went into hyperdrive.
"Deep breaths, deep breaths! I failed at being an idol as a child because of crippling social anxiety, hiding behind screens instead of facing the world. But this time… this time, I will finally present myself with confidence in person!" She thought to herself.
Her lips pulled into a fierce, determined pout. She was making a reckless, self-affirming decision.
As the elevator doors opened onto the new corridor—dormitory row 179 to 190—she charged out, silent-screaming a mantra of self-confidence. She didn't slow down until she reached the door marked 187.
She stopped dead, inhaled one final time, and slammed the door open with a determined expression.
"Good afternoon, however you are!! My name is Trizha Frantzes, presenting myself as the best Influencer of Malacca City! I hope we can get along!!" Trizha shouted, extending her hand outward in a dramatic, confident bow, waiting for the expected gasp or greeting from her new roommate.
Silence.
Heavy, anticlimactic silence.
Trizha lifted her head slightly, peeking past her own shoulder. She scanned the empty beds and the tidy, unoccupied space.
No one.
The room was vacant.
She straightened up, her expression morphing from determined confidence to open-mouthed deflation.
Then, in a rush of heat, her cheeks flushed a furious, mortified red. She squealed in pure, distilled embarrassment, running into the room to grab a pillow and furiously punch it.
"Damn it, damn it all! Why out of all times…! Now I just lost all of that confidence…! This is so embarrassing!!"
Trizha cried, dashing wildly around the small space, punching anything that might absorb the shock of her self-inflicted humiliation.
A figure stood calmly in the middle of the doorway.
It was Nomoro.
Nomoro watched Trizha's bizarre, self-flagellating routine with a perfectly composed, yet thoroughly confused expression.
His own travel bag lay settled discreetly by the couch. The subtle sound of his bag being jostled was loud enough to pierce through Trizha's tantrum.
She stopped in her tracks, her frantic energy instantly draining. She spun around and finally noticed him. Her expression instantly fractured into confusion and a sickening, gut-deep realization.
"Wait—you—"
Nomoro stepped forward, retrieving his bag. His voice was quiet, even, and calm.
"Yeah… I'm your roommate. But don't worry… I won't tell anyone what I just saw."
To Trizha, his simple approach felt like an advance. It felt threatening.
She froze, intimidated by his mere presence as the wave of every cruel, hurtful memory of how she had treated him washed over her.
She remembered the look on his face.
She remembered the way she had dismissed his well-being.
She remembered the worst thing she had ever said to him:
"...resign yourself from this school, and get out of here, Demon."