The screen lit up, and the video started playing.
The setting was simple, just a white wall behind them, looking eerily close to an amateur confessional. But what stood out wasn't the setting. It was Nyx.
She sat in the center of the frame on a simple chair, knees drawn together, hands nervously clenched in her lap. Her pink eyes, normally steadfast and playful, were swimming in tears. Thick, glistening trails ran down her cheeks, and her lip trembled as she tried—and failed—to compose herself.
Behind her stood Luna and Aria, each with one hand placed on Nyx's trembling shoulders in utmost solidarity. Their postures were rigid, but their expressions spoke volumes. Aria's face was soft, her brows drawn together in anguish. Her usual ethereal calm had vanished, replaced by something heartbreakingly human: tenderness sharpened by helpless guilt, as if she wished she could rewind time and shield Nyx from everything.
