Moments before it all happened.
Within the Empty Zone, lies the world of reflection; the Mirror Maze.
Inside the Mirror Maze, the air was stagnant and smelled faintly of glass cleaner and old electricity.
Countless walls of polished mirrors created a disorienting labyrinth, a crystalline trap designed to shatter a person's sense of direction.
Every path looked identical, reflecting one's own existence back from a thousand different angles, blurring the line between the walker and the reflection.
Along the edges of each mirror, rows of small, classic lightbulbs flickered with a warm, steady glow, their light bouncing endlessly across the glass surfaces until the entire room felt like a fever dream of light and ego.
The maze was eerily empty.
It was as if every tourist in the Japanese-themed park had suddenly lost interest in the attraction, or perhaps they had all escaped moments ago, leaving the silence to thicken.
Then, the silence was broken by the steady, unhurried footfalls of a young man.
He was tall and handsome, with a shock of bushy red hair that was shaven black on the sides.
He moved with a sudden, unusual predatory grace, not at all bothered by the confusing reflections of his own character that surrounded him. He wasn't looking for the exit; he was analyzing the very fabric of the park itself.
"This park... how odd," Zackier murmured, his voice a low vibration in the glass hall. "This event, occurring on the fourth day of the hotel arc... it's a deviation. It hasn't happened in any previous unendings. Did 'they' finally decide to make their move? Or did they realize that 'he' has finally emerged after centuries of hiding in the cracks of history?"
Zackier stopped abruptly.
A wide, sinister grin spread across his face, and a chilling sense of excitement began to pulse through his veins.
He let out a long, heavy breath, the sound echoing like a sigh from a furnace.
"...Regardless," Zackier chuckled, his voice growing darker. "No matter how desperately they try to prevent another deadly era..."
He lifted his left hand to his face, his fingers moving with practiced precision.
He reached for his eyes and expertly removed a pair of red contact lenses, revealing his true nature.
Those contact lenses, were noticed by none.
His irises were a vibrant, unnatural fuchsia, and his pupils were not round, but black, jagged spikes—shards of glass-like darkness that seemed to swallow the light.
His grin widened into a display of pure, unadulterated arrogance.
"...'He' has already adapted. But for now... I think I'll take the initiative."
He tucked the contact lenses into their miniature cases and slipped them into his pocket.
Just as the click of the case lids settled, he heard it—the soft, deliberate scuff of footsteps approaching from behind.
He didn't jump.
He simply straightened his posture, a mask of calm returning to his face as he slowly turned to meet the intruder.
And as he does it… the movement of his eyes, the way it moved, it's instantaneous. It's as if it had teleported to meet its current gaze.
A terrifying movement unusual to the human body.
"Well isn't this a surprising start," Zackier said, his voice smooth as silk. "I believe this is the first time you and I have ever had the pleasure of a real, personal conversation."
He made a dramatic pause, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend to a grand stage.
He looked down at the person standing before him, his fuchsia eyes gleaming with a hidden malice.
The irony wasn't lost on him; this was exactly the confrontation the other person had been seeking.
"Fancy seeing you here..." Zackier slowly paused, his smirk sharpening.
A girl before him, she stood defiant against him, her silhouette reflected a hundred times in the glass.
She stared back with her trademark emotionless expression, but her voice was an octave deeper than usual, weighted with a new gravity.
This is a woman that many, on first glance, would consider to recognize as a person who lived and died in a special well simultaneously.
"...Margaret."
He finished his call. His smirk grew wider in the darkness of the glass world, reflecting each possible glass and turning it all into grins that punctuates the heart of the witnesses.
"Fancy… seeing you too, Zack," Margaret replied, her eyes locked onto his true irises. "Or, Zackier Morkator."
She was analyzing him, her mind working like a high-speed processor to decipher the tension radiating from those jagged, glass-like pupils.
To her, those eyes represented something sinister—the 'complete liberation over the rules of usual benevolence.'
It was a look of someone who had discarded their humanity.
Yet, despite the cold dread pooling in her stomach, she remained a statue of calm.
"You seem a bit lost, Margaret," Zackier continued, cutting through her silent observation. "If you're looking for Trizha and Wyne, you're in the wrong place. They aren't here. But don't worry—I was looking for them too. We can find them together."
Margaret squinted, her gaze turning into a sharp glare.
She knew exactly where the others were—Wyne with Nomoro, and Trizha is still wandering around the empty plaza.
"No need," Margaret stated firmly. "I already know where they are."
"Ooh, Is that so?" Zackier's eyes flashed with mock-luckiness. "Then I suppose I'm the lucky one. Let's go find them. But first..."
He lowered his arms and took a slow, deliberate step forward.
The space between them shrank dangerously as he slowly approached her, a soft, predatory smile on his lips that masked a far more sinister intent.
"...I have a question to ask you," Zackier said, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating frequency that seemed to make the surrounding glass hum. "A question that I've been meaning to pose for quite some time now."
Suddenly, the predatory, mocking smile that had defined his face faded like smoke caught in a draft.
The arrogance was gone, replaced by an expression of deep, simmering displeasure.
He leaned in, his fuchsia eyes staring deep into Margaret's, analyzing her very well-being with a clinical, soul-piercing intensity.
He wasn't just looking at her; he was looking through her, searching for the cracks he had just described.
But Margaret didn't flinch.
She wasn't even fazed by the unnatural hunger in his gaze.
Instead, she stood her ground, her body coiled with a sharp, calculated caution.
She was more than just interested; she was morbidly curious, like a scientist observing a volatile chemical reaction that could at any moment consume the laboratory.
To an average human being, those jagged, spike-like pupils would have been a source of primal, unsettling terror.
But Margaret remained unwavered by the darkness those eyes exuded.
"You want to ask me something?" Margaret responded.
Her tone was surprisingly low and cold, mirroring the temperature of the mirrors around them. "What a shallow coincidence. I happen to have a question for you as well. Mind if I take the lead?"
"You're far too kind, Margaret," Zackier countered, his eyes narrowing. "But unfortunately, I spoke first. I established the intent first. Don't you think it's a matter of proper manners that whoever takes the lead should be allowed to keep it?"
"Proper manners are usually just a lead-in to being left compromised," Margaret said, her voice never wavering. "An easy way to be caught unaware. I wouldn't want that. So, in any case... I should go first."
***
"That won't be happening," Zackier said, his voice hardening as he took a half-step closer. "Now you're just being rude. You're supposed to be the wise one, the logical supporter of your little trio. At least, that's what I've heard. However, in all my years, I've never heard of a group quite like yours. So... allow me to ask."
"I must be the one to go first," Margaret interrupted, her gaze sharpening as she analyzed his posture. "Because I know for a fact that you aren't meant to be here. I was standing in this park long before you arrived. Your presence, your atmosphere... your very essence. It doesn't belong here. It isn't even foreign in the way a tourist is. You're simply... not from around here. So, let me ask."
***
The two of them stood their ground, rooted to the floor of the labyrinth.
The tension between them became a physical weight—heavy, thick, and uncomfortably unsteady.
You could almost feel the air thinning, the space between them transforming into a silent standoff where the slightest breath could shatter the glass.
Despite the countless shards of mirror reflecting every remaining spark of light in the room, there was no movement whatsoever.
They were two statues caught in a deadlock of wills.
And then, before the silence could break them, both individuals spoke in a haunting, perfectly timed unison.
"What are you?"
"Who are you?"