Simoya's throat moved, and Hesta could tell she had been formulating an answer all along.
"...Then there's no need to rush your answer to that question," Hesta said, shifting her gaze elsewhere. "Let's talk about something else first."
Simoya's brows suddenly furrowed, and the wariness in her eyes deepened. "What do you want to talk about?"
"The first time I realized you might need help was on the night of the terrorist attack on King's Avenue. Do you remember? That was when I asked you, 'When did you start hating me so much?'"
"...So?"
"That hatred felt very familiar to me," Hesta said softly. "Because even earlier than that, I had encountered that same inexplicable hostility—where merely existing seemed enough to make some people unhappy."
Simoya's breathing grew quieter. She picked up the cup beside her but did not pour any water into it. "You can be more explicit."
"No hatred truly comes from nowhere," Hesta said softly. "Sometimes people hate you because you stand in their way. Other times, they hate you simply because your existence points to another possibility—enough to make them doubt the path they themselves have taken."
Simoya's grip around the cup tightened.
"You didn't like what happened on King's Avenue that night, but it seemed you had no other choice," Hesta said, resting her elbow against the low cabinet beside her. "And it seems you couldn't see any other choice for the Quicksilver Needles either. You were almost convinced that there was only one road ahead—the one Deep Anchor had chosen."
Simoya lowered her eyes, the corners of her mouth still turned down in displeasure. "...You talk as if you know me very well, hmm?"
She glanced toward Hesta. However, Hesta was not looking at her—she was swirling the half-full cup in her hand, making