The descent of Nomoro Ketatsuki was not a fall; it was the final, broken conclusion of a tragedy.
In his last moments of consciousness, the boy who wore the Devil was nothing more than a ragdoll tossed aside by a cruel being from another story.
He struck the surface of the river that snaked around the Prom Tower with a sickening thud, a sound that was instantly swallowed by the roar of the current.
His eyes were sealed shut, his limbs splayed and gently buoyed by the dark, churning water.
Beneath the surface, the crimson ribbon of his blood began to unravel from his wounds, blossoming like a dark flower in the moonlight before being swept away by the tide.
High above, the news helicopter—a mechanical vulture that had been circling the carnage—descended from the clouds.
Inside, the cameraman fought the centrifugal force of the turn, bracing his shoulder against the frame as he aimed his high-definition lens at the riverside.
"Who was that?" The reporter asked, her voice trembling as she leaned over the cameraman's shoulder to peer at the monitor.
"Was that a student?"
The cameraman zoomed in, his brow furrowed. "Maybe just some kid who got so terrified of the collapse that he jumped? Panic does crazy things to people."
"But from that height?" the reporter countered, shaking her head. "The impact alone would turn your insides to jelly. No one survives a drop like that. Not even into water."
"A-ah… good point," the cameraman muttered, his voice dropping into a somber register. "Yeah. That guy's dead. Definitely dead."
He gave a sharp, clinical nod of agreement, and the reporter let out a long, jagged sigh of disbelief.
She looked at the back of his head with a flicker of disdain; he had completely missed the haunting, impossible nature of what they were witnessing.
This wasn't just a suicide; it was a falling star.
Suddenly, her peripheral vision caught a flash of white and gold against the dark concrete of the rooftop.
"Hey, look!" She lunged forward, pointing a trembling finger toward the summit of the tower.
"What now?"
The cameraman shifted his heavy rig, his jaw dropping as the viewfinder captured the image of a girl.
Her long, wavy blonde hair was a tangled mess, and her white dress was shredded and stained with soot and blood.
She was swaying on the very edge of the precipice, her body visibly trembling as she fought the simple physics of standing upright.
"Well, I'll be damned! Another one?"
The cameraman, seized by a sudden, frantic desperation for the "money shot," leaned toward the pilot's seat, screaming over the roar of the rotors.
"Hey!! Pull us in! Get the bird toward that girl! She's about to jump!! We can save her, or at least get it on film!"
"Okay, okay!! You don't have to scream in my ear, you absolute dumbass!"
The pilot roared back, his hand flying out in a reflex of irritation to smack the cameraman's shoulder.
The cameraman staggered back, rubbing his arm with a hiss of pain.
The reporter just watched the exchange with a cold, nonchalant stare; she knew the cameraman deserved the strike for his ghoulish enthusiasm.
"Ow! Watch it!"
"Then shut up and let me fly!" the pilot snapped.
The helicopter banked sharply, the engine screaming as it fought the wind to reach the rooftop.
But they were too slow.
Before the skids could even hover near the ledge, the blonde girl simply leaned forward.
She didn't dive; she surrendered to gravity.
The reporter and the cameraman both let out a sharp, synchronised gasp as they watched the small white figure vanish into the dark abyss.
"Did she seriously just do that?!" the cameraman snorted, though his bravado was shaking. "Now she's gone too. Waste of a life."
"Be quiet!" the reporter snapped, her professional mask finally breaking. "Pilot, get us down there! Right now! We have to see if she's surfaced!"
The reporter turned to the driver with a look of such raw, commanding desperation that the pilot didn't argue.
He pushed the collective down, the helicopter diving in a dangerous pursuit of the falling girl.
But their descent was cut short.
Every speaker in the cockpit—and seemingly every electronic device in the vicinity—erupted with a burst of static that quickly coalesced into a cold, authoritative voice.
It was a voice that carried the weight of a thousand bayonets.
[All airborne aircraft, all civilians, everyone. This is General Koby Frantzes speaking.]
The voice was like ice.
[Clearance, licensed, missioned, or otherwise—get down. Leave the area within a one-mile radius immediately. Find a safe zone and stay there. This is a direct military order under martial emergency protocol. Move.]
The crew of the helicopter froze, staring at the radio console in a state of paralyzed shock.
They were mere seconds away from the water.
"...What?" the pilot muttered, his hands loosening on the controls.
"Leave the area?" The reporter gripped the seat. "But we have to find that girl! She's right there!"
[I repeat. All aircraft and civilians, leave the area. Find a safe zone. This is an order.]
The reporter leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, searching the churning river below.
The white dress, the blonde hair—it was all gone.
There was only the dark, indifferent water.
A hollow horror filled her face.
The cameraman turned to her, his expression one of confused irritation. "Hey, what's the matter? We're just following orders, right?"
"She... s-she..."
The reporter slowly turned to him, and the look in her eyes was enough to kill the conversation.
There was no need for an explanation.
The silence told the story: the girl had already struck the water, and in this darkness, she would never be found.
***
"Lala… no one wants to be my friend, huh."
Nine years before the tower, nine years before the fire, a seven-year-old Trizha walked down the steps of a public staircase.
It was a radiant, sunny day, but the ground was still littered with deep puddles and thick mud from a storm that had passed days prior.
She was a child who understood very little of the world, but she understood the weight of the silence that followed her.
"Arghh…! Why does no one want to play with me?! I'm pretty! I have blonde hair! I'm nice!"
She shouted at the empty air, her voice echoing through the deserted alleyway.
She was reckless, screaming her frustrations where anyone could hear, but there was no one around to judge her.
Or so she thought.
「Blonde hair and purple eyes... that's a Frantzes girl.」
「Honey, don't play with her. She's out of our league, and her family is trouble.」
「You want to be friends? Go find some rich kids in the hills, haha!」
「I don't like people who think they're better than us. Especially you.」
「Are you going to make me pay to be your friend? Because if you are, I'm out.」
"H-hmph! Why does everyone hate my name? Frantzes is a pretty name! It's pretty like me!" she stammered to herself, her lower lip trembling.
Recalling those rejections, she felt a familiar, sharp pang in her chest.
Every request for a game of tag, every offered snack, every simple "hello" had been met with a wall of adult prejudice filtered through the mouths of children.
She was all alone, and the day was growing cold.
She let out a sigh of profound, silent disappointment.
She had started the day with a dream of a best friend and was ending it in a nightmare of isolation.
"...Boomer," she whispered, using a word she didn't quite understand but knew felt like a dismissal.
She pouted, determined to keep her tears from falling.
She kept her head down, watching her shiny shoes avoid the mud.
But then, a foul, metallic stench wafted from a dark alleyway to her right.
She sniffed the air and nearly shrieked "Ew!" before catching herself and clamping her small hands over her mouth.
Pinching her nose shut, she peered into the shadows.
There, curled up against a rusted dumpster, was a boy.
He was covered in filth and jagged, angry wounds.
He didn't move.
He didn't seem to be breathing.
He looked like a discarded doll, left out to rot in the city's underbelly.
But to Trizha, the sight didn't bring fear.
It brought a spark of desperate optimism.
This wasn't a boy who would care about her last name.
This was someone who looked just as lonely as she was.
This was her last chance.
She approached him with a cheerful, brave little skip and poked his shoulder. "Hey, are you sleeping? It's dirty here."
The boy didn't respond.
She poked him harder, her small finger sinking into his tattered sleeve. "Hey! Wake up!"
Still nothing.
She began to get irritated, let out a frustrated little "hmmm," and continued to prod him, trying to provoke any sign of life.
[...So this is where you were. This is how I found you.]
Since he wouldn't wake up, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
She grabbed his thin, bruised arm and tugged.
He was as heavy and stubborn as an unmoving rock.
[How could I ever forget this? The day the world tried to throw you away and left you to rot...]
She groaned, her small face turning red with effort as she tried to drag him out of the darkness and into the sunlight.
[You've been alone this whole time, haven't you... Nomoro?]
"Come on... move!!"
Trizha braced her feet against the pavement, pulling with both hands, her heart filled with a child's fierce, illogical determination.
"Hey! Wake up!!"
[...Don't worry. This time... I'll make sure you don't have to.]
"I wanna be your friend!"
[No one is alone in my world. Not anymore.]
…Nine years ago, on that day, Trizha pulled Nomoro out of the dark alley. And that was the day that Nomoro's fate of truly dying alone, had failed because of her.
And nine years later, to this very day, to this very night… Trizha pulled Nomoro out of the riverside. And that was the night that Nomoro's fate of truly dying alone, had failed once more… because of her.
For the second time in his life, his fate of dying alone failed... because she refused to let go.
She struck the water, the impact vibrating through her very marrow, but her "State" acted as a buffer against the lethal kinetic energy.
Her vision was a blur of bubbles and darkness; fate had decreed that Trizha should die here, her story ending in a watery grave.
.
.
.
Trizha: 104
Fate: 1
.
.
.
Trizha: 105
Fate: 1
.
.
.
But fate was a weak opponent against her resolve.
She surfaced, her lungs burning, and immediately began to scan the river.
She saw him—a dark shadow drifting slowly toward the bottom.
Panic flared in her chest; her remaining strength was a flickering candle, and the current was a gale.
.
.
.
Trizha: 105
Fate: 1
.
.
.
Trizha: 106
Fate: 1
.
.
.
Again, fate failed.
She dove, her fingers closing around Nomoro's arm.
She kicked with everything she had, attempting to pull him toward the air.
But the weight was immense.
Nomoro was a dead weight, and the gravity of the river seemed to double as they began to sink together.
.
.
.
Trizha: 106
Fate: 1
.
.
.
Trizha: 107
Fate: 1
.
.
.
She defied the weight.
She defied the water.
With a guttural, silent scream beneath the surface, she kicked until her muscles felt like they were tearing, dragging him upward until they breached the surface.
She gasped for air, her lungs raw, and began the agonizing swim toward the concrete bank.
She grabbed the rusted edge of the embankment, hauling Nomoro's body onto the flat ground before collapsing beside him.
She crawled toward him, her breath coming in ragged, wet sobs.
He was terrifyingly still.
His skin was the color of ash, and there was no rise and fall of his chest.
"No... No... Nomoro, please..." she stammered.
She hesitated for a split second, her mind racing.
She remembered the health classes, the diagrams of CPR, but her hands were shaking so violently she didn't know if she could do it.
But she didn't care. She had to.
She laced her fingers together, placing her palms over the center of his chest.
She began to pump, the rhythm desperate and frantic.
"WAKE UP!" she screamed into the night.
She kept going, her arms aching, her own injuries screaming for her to stop.
She ignored the blood dripping from her own forehead.
She ignored the world.
But he wasn't coming back.
Tears began to fall, hot and fast, splashing onto Nomoro's pale face.
"NOMORO! WAKE UP! PLEASE! DON'T DO THIS! I AM RIGHT HERE!!"
She pounded on his chest, her thoughts a chaotic storm of give up and he's gone, but her heart refused to listen.
She was doing everything she could, pouring her own life force into his stagnant heart.
In the background, the military announcement had done its work.
A stream of survivors was beginning to pour out of the tower's ground-floor exits.
They were a parade of the damned—traumatized, bleeding, carrying their friends on their backs.
They began to notice the girl on the riverbank.
They recognized the blonde hair.
"Hey... isn't that the influencer? Izha?"
"What is she doing? Is that... is she doing CPR?"
"Look at her... she's a mess. And who is that guy?"
"Poor girl... she's lost it."
The murmurs grew into a low roar as a crowd began to form a wide, respectful, yet curious circle around her.
Trizha didn't see them.
She didn't hear them.
To her, the entire world consisted of Nomoro's chest and the rhythm of her own hands.
Only two people in that crowd truly understood what they were seeing.
Wyne and Margaret stood at the edge of the throng, their faces pale.
They saw the desperation in every heave of Trizha's shoulders.
They saw the boy who had been their classmate, looking more dead than alive. It was a sight beyond heartbreaking; it was a testament to a bond they hadn't fully realized existed.
"Trizha..." Wyne whispered, her voice breaking.
She had wanted a reunion, but not like this.
Not with Trizha fighting for the life of a ghost.
"MOVE!"
"CLEAR THE AREA! GET BACK!"
"MILITARY PROTOCOL! CLEAR OUT!"
A squad of soldiers, led by a stern sergeant, began to shove the crowd back, creating a perimeter around the two figures on the ground.
They were moving in to take control, their boots thumping on the concrete as they approached the girl who refused to let fate win.