By the time the clock on the far wall crawled past four, the student council room felt like it had been sealed off from oxygen.
Adam slouched deeper into his chair and stifled a yawn behind his knuckles, blinking against the fluorescent lights that hummed faintly overhead. The long oval table stretched out in front of him like a battlefield after the fighting had stalled but not stopped, papers scattered, tablets glowing, half-empty water bottles sweating onto polished wood. Outside the tall windows, late October sunlight angled in at a lazy slant, turning the dust in the air into drifting sparks, warm and deceptively calm.
Inside, nothing was calm.
Voices overlapped, rose, fell, then rose again. Someone laughed without humor. Someone else slapped a palm against the table hard enough to rattle a pen onto the floor.
Adam exhaled slowly through his nose. He was tired, bone-deep tired, the kind that made his shoulders ache and his thoughts feel slightly out of sync with his body. Still, he stayed. Bryce was counting on him to stay.
That alone was reason enough.
Across the table, Bryce stood with both hands braced on the edge, sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows, jaw tight. As president, he looked composed at first glance, posture straight, expression controlled, but Adam could see it in the small things. The way Bryce's fingers flexed and unclenched. The way his gaze flicked from face to face, measuring reactions, calculating how much charm he had left to spend.
If this meeting dragged on much longer, Bryce was going to burn through all of it.
Adam leaned back and let his head tip briefly against the chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles. He reminded himself, not for the first time, that this mattered. Student council was not just some résumé padding or popularity contest. At Moonstone, the council actually ran things. Budgets, trips, events, discipline hearings. It meant something. It came with perks, sure, but it also came with responsibility, the kind most people only liked in theory.
Right now, responsibility was in very short supply.
"Okay, but that's not fair," someone snapped from the far end of the table. "You can't just expect us to drop our plans because the council didn't prepare early enough."
"We did prepare," another voice shot back, sharp and irritated. "We just didn't expect to have half the manpower this year."
Adam opened his eyes again and scanned the room.
Every seat was filled, but the gaps were impossible to ignore. The previous councils used to boast over twenty members, now there were only twelve. The first year deputies sat together, stiff and defensive, already overwhelmed by their own commitments. Since the first years and second years celebrated Halloween in different ways, the council was already split down the middle. The first years had to plan and host their Halloween weekend party at the school, while the second and third years were off on their own separate trips. That left the second years, the core of the council, staring down the biggest Halloween event of the year with half the manpower and twice the expectations.
Halloween at Moonstone was not just a party. It was tradition, especially for the second years. A trip north to the old castle, A private island excursion, themed events that blurred the line between history and performance. Every year did it differently. Every year, people remembered it.
And every year, someone complained.
This year, everyone was complaining.
Bryce raised both hands slightly, a practiced motion meant to calm rather than command. "Look, I get it," he said, his voice steady but stretched thin. "I really do. No one's happy about this. I'm not happy about this. But the reality is, we don't have the numbers we used to. So we adapt. That's why I reached out to the clubs."
A few groans answered him.
Adam remembered Bryce coming back to their room late the night before, jacket still on, tie loosened, flopping onto his bed with a groan and muttering something about being turned down six times in one afternoon. Drama club had rehearsals. Media club said it wasn't their problem. Even the outdoor society had politely declined, citing safety concerns.
No club wanted to touch Halloween.
"And every single one of them said no," Bryce continued, forcing a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Which means the workload stays here. With us."
That was when the room really turned.
"You can't be serious," a second year minister said, pushing back from the table. "That's insane. You're asking us to plan transport, activities, safety protocols, supervision, publicity, all of it?"
"And security," someone added. "Don't forget that."
"Meanwhile first years get to opt out because they're 'busy'?" another voice cut in, pointed and bitter.
Adam felt something tighten in his chest.
Across from him, Aiva straightened in her seat, her dark eyes flashing as she tried to speak, lifting a hand slightly. "Guys, maybe we should just slow down for a second and actually—"
She was drowned out immediately.
"That's easy for you to say," a second year snapped, turning on a first year deputy. "You're not the one being expected to carry this."
The first year flushed, hands curling into fists. "We didn't ask for this either. We have our own event to plan. We have—"
"Everyone has plans," someone scoffed.
The noise escalated, voices stacking on top of each other, the air growing hot despite the cool afternoon outside. Adam's jaw clenched. His fingers curled against the armrest of his chair without him realizing it.
He wasn't angry at Bryce. Not even close.
He was angry at the room.
At the entitlement. At the way everyone seemed to forget that they had chosen this. The badges, the access, the influence, the prestige. They had signed up for it, smiling, shaking hands, posting photos. Now that it asked something back, they wanted to push it onto someone else.
Adam felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes, a restless heat under his skin. He shifted in his seat, trying to ignore it, telling himself it was just hunger, just fatigue. He hadn't eaten much all day. On purpose.
That thought surfaced, unwelcome.
No. Focus.
Bryce opened his mouth again, clearly about to step into the fire one more time, and something in Adam snapped, not loudly, not violently, but decisively.
Before he fully realized he was moving, Adam pushed back his chair and stood.
The sound it made against the floor cut through the room like a knife.
Adam leaned forward and planted both hands flat on the table. The wood was cool under his palms, grounding. The room went still, the sudden silence almost physical, like everyone had collectively held their breath.
He spoke before he could overthink it.
"Cut him some slack."
His voice came out firm, louder than he intended, carrying easily across the room. Every eye turned to him, surprise flickering on more than a few faces. Adam swallowed and kept going, momentum carrying him forward.
"You're acting like Bryce signed you all up for this without your consent," he said, his gaze moving slowly from person to person. "He didn't. You chose this. All of you did. You wanted the position, the perks, the say in how things run."
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, this is the other half of it," Adam continued. "This is the part where it's not fun. Where it's messy and unfair and more work than you thought it would be. That's what leadership is. You don't get to throw a fit the second it stops being convenient."
The words were sharp, sharper than he usually allowed himself to be. As he spoke, Adam became aware of his own posture, how he was looming slightly over the table, shoulders squared, pulse beating hard in his throat. A flicker of something like alarm passed through him.
This isn't how I talk, he thought distantly.
He forced himself to breathe.
"If all we're doing here is yelling at each other," he finished, quieter now, "then we're not leading anything. We're just adding to the chaos."
The silence stretched.
Adam straightened slowly, the heat ebbing as quickly as it had flared. He cleared his throat and sat back down, suddenly very aware of how fast his heart was beating.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Bryce exhaled, a sound that was half relief, half exhaustion. He nodded once, grateful, and seized the opening.
"Okay," Bryce said. "We're done for today. Everyone take the night. Think. Actually think about what you can contribute, even a little. We meet again tomorrow and we figure this out like adults."
There were a few grumbles, but no one argued. Chairs scraped back. People gathered their things, conversations restarting in low, irritated murmurs as they filed out.
Adam stayed seated, the adrenaline fading and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. His stomach chose that moment to twist painfully, a sharp reminder of everything he had been denying it.
As the room emptied, Bryce came around the table and stopped beside him.
"Hey," Bryce said quietly. "Thanks. Seriously."
Adam waved it off, forcing a shrug. "It was getting loud. And entitled. I couldn't listen to it anymore."
Bryce laughed, short and genuine, the tension easing from his face. "Fair. I have to go talk to the principal about all this. Damage control."
"Good luck," Adam said.
Bryce clapped him once on the shoulder before heading out, already pulling his phone from his pocket.
Adam was alone now.
The council room felt different without the noise, almost echoing. He stood slowly, feeling a faint dizziness wash over him. He steadied himself against the table, jaw tightening.
Too little food, he told himself. That's all.
As he stepped into the hallway, the scent of cleaning solution and old stone filled his nose. Students passed by, laughing, talking about weekend plans, blissfully unaware of the mess brewing behind closed doors.
Adam's stomach growled again, louder this time.
He paused, considering the vending machines, the cafeteria, the simple relief of eating something warm and filling.
No, he thought firmly.
Not now.
Instead, he turned down the corridor, already forming a different plan. Amber. If anyone could distract him from hunger and the uncomfortable churn of his thoughts, it was her.
"Adam!"
He stopped.
Turning back, he spotted Aiva a few steps behind him, waving him down. She stood out even in the busy hallway, posture straight, expression alert, dark hair catching the light. There was something composed about her, something watchful, like she saw more than she let on.
She smiled as she approached, and for just a moment, Adam felt that strange, unsteady sense of being seen a little too clearly.
Aiva's smile lingered for a second longer than necessary, like she was weighing something in her head before deciding how to say it.
"That was good back there," she said finally, falling into step beside Adam as the hallway noise ebbed around them. "Standing up for Bryce. Someone needed to."
Adam let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. I just couldn't stand listening to them throw tantrums. Felt like a daycare with better vocabulary."
Aiva huffed, clearly amused. "Still. You didn't have to do it."
They walked slowly, neither of them in a hurry now that the meeting was over. Sunlight filtered in through the tall corridor windows, softened by the overcast sky outside, casting everything in a muted gray-blue glow. Adam became aware of the sound of their footsteps, the faint squeak of polished floors, the distant echo of laughter from somewhere deeper in the building.
Aiva glanced at him sideways, her eyes flicking down for a brief moment before returning to his face. Her lips curved, subtle but unmistakable.
"Also," she added casually, "you've been working out, haven't you?"
Adam blinked. "What?"
She tilted her head, openly appraising now, not shy about it. "I mean, you were always in shape. Lean. Athletic. But now?" She made a small gesture with her hand, as if outlining his frame. "You're… more defined."
Adam felt heat creep up his neck. Instinctively, his shoulders shifted, posture adjusting without him consciously deciding to. He became suddenly, acutely aware of his own body, the way his clothes fit tighter around his arms, his chest.
He hadn't imagined it, then.
Ever since the black werewolf incident, something had undeniably changed in him. Adam didn't work out, nor did he consider playing basketball to be actual exercise. Even if it could be counted as such, that still wouldn't have explained the noticeable changes in his body. Still, he couldn't bring himself to be honest about it, not now anyway. He'd always known a day like this might come, but he kept shoving that thought, and the answer he'd give far into the back of his mind.
Now, hearing it said out loud made it harder to ignore.
"It's nothing," Adam said quickly, waving it off. "Just… consistency. Better program, I guess."
Aiva smirked.
Not a teasing grin. Not disbelief exactly. More like someone humoring a half-truth.
"Sure," she said. "If that's what you're going with."
Adam narrowed his eyes at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," she replied lightly, though her tone suggested otherwise. "Relax. I'm not accusing you of anything."
He wasn't sure why that made his chest tighten.
Adam cleared his throat and shifted gears before the conversation could dig any deeper. "So," he said, "what did you actually need? You didn't wave me down just to flatter me, did you?"
Aiva's expression softened, becoming more focused, more purposeful. "I didn't like how Bryce was getting treated in there," she admitted. "So I figured I'd do something about it."
Adam frowned slightly. "Do what, exactly?"
"I'm going to the clubs," she said, as if it were obvious. "All of them. Or at least the relevant ones. I'm going to convince them to help with Halloween."
Adam stopped walking.
Aiva took two steps before noticing and turning back to him, one brow arching in question.
"You're serious," Adam said.
"Completely."
He let out a slow breath. "Aiva, Bryce already tried that. He got shut down hard. And Bryce is, like… Bryce. He could sell ice to a glacier."
She smiled then, sharp and confident. "You're only saying that cuz you haven't met me yet."
Adam stared at her for a moment, then snorted despite himself. "Wow."
She shrugged, unapologetic. "What? I'm good at reading people. And I know how to push without making it feel like pushing."
"I'm skeptical," Adam said honestly.
"That's fine," she replied. "You don't have to believe me yet."
He crossed his arms loosely. "Then why am I involved?"
Aiva stepped closer, lowering her voice just slightly, like she was letting him in on a secret. "Because you're the deputy for clubs and sports," she said. "Which makes this, technically, your responsibility."
The words landed with a dull thud.
Adam closed his eyes for a second and sighed.
There it was. The last fragile image of his Friday afternoon, spent doing absolutely nothing, shattered cleanly. No food. No rest. No zoning out in his room until evening.
He opened his eyes and looked at her again, resigned. "You planned that."
"Maybe," Aiva said, grinning. "But you know I'm right."
He did.
Adam rolled his shoulders, already feeling the weight of obligation settle in. "So what, we just go door to door begging clubs to save Halloween?"
"Convincing," she corrected. "Not begging."
Before he could protest further, Aiva reached out and took his hands.
The contact startled him.
Her grip was warm, firm, purposeful. Without giving him time to process it, she tugged gently, pulling him along down the hallway.
"Come on," she said. "First stop, the arts wing."
Adam stumbled half a step before falling into stride beside her. His stomach growled again, quieter this time, drowned out by the rush of movement and her presence so close.
"Just think of it this way," Aiva added, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "You're helping Bryce."
That did it.
Adam looked at her profile, at the sincerity in her expression, the quiet determination. He felt something loosen in his chest, something that had been knotted there since the meeting.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Okay."
Aiva's smile widened. "Good. Because I'm going to make everyone help. And somehow, they're all going to have fun doing it."
Adam laughed softly, shaking his head as they disappeared down the corridor together, the afternoon stretching ahead of them with something like possibility.
For the first time all day, he felt almost hopeful.