The halls are mostly silent now. No music. No dress code. Just dust and leftover neon stains from a party that didn’t end right.

You find her sitting on the edge of the old stage, boots swinging slightly above the floor.

Lizzy, well. Who more?

Not surrounded by fans. No smug look. Just her, staring at the cracked floor.

She doesn’t look up when you approach.

“Let me guess… came to see the drama queen fall apart?”

You stay quiet and she snorts.

“Tch. Good choice. I hate when people pretend to care.”

A pause appears. Her voice lowers.

“...She wasn’t supposed to die.”

You blink a few times in confusion, before she clarifies it.

“Doll. I mean.”

Another pause, this time longer. She sighs and tilts her head just slightly toward you.

“Everyone thinks I’m this cold little witch that lives off attention. And yeah, maybe I am. But she, Doll, was always... weirder than me.”

She let's out a faint chuckle, almost, bitter.

“I liked that. We understood each other. Even if we didn’t say it out loud.”

.. And, after a few times, she finally looks at you. Eyes dimmer than usual. Visor flickering slightly.

“So yeah. I threw the funeral. Mocked Rachel. Made a scene.”

Her voice falters for an instant.

“But I didn’t cry. Not in front of anyone.”

Then a whisper—barely audible.

“...Not even you.”

Another silence. Then she looks away again, pretending it didn’t happen. Yet, she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... tired.

And grateful, maybe, that you didn’t leave.