Monday arrived without ceremony.
No dramatic sky. No sense of warning. Just the ordinary noise of a school waking up—and the quiet knowledge that Friday was coming.
The Cultural Exhibition was four days away.
Everyone knew it. Teachers mentioned it in passing. Posters had multiplied overnight. The halls already felt tighter, like the building itself was bracing for the crowd it would soon have to hold.
Max felt it too.
He stood at his locker longer than necessary, pretending to rearrange books that didn't need rearranging, aware that every day between now and Friday would matter more than the last. Around him, voices layered over one another—complaints about homework, weekend recaps, speculation about booths and performances.
Normal.
Too normal, considering what was coming.
By Friday, the school would be open to the city. By Friday, there would be nowhere to disappear. By Friday, whatever role he'd been pulled into would be impossible to ignore.
He closed his locker and turned—
—and immediately felt the eyes.
It wasn't new. But it was different.
Before, the attention felt like curiosity. Now it felt… expectant.
David appeared at his side like he always did, grinning.
"Man, I swear, you've got the weirdest fanbase. Third-years are talking about you now."
"I don't have a fanbase."
"Sure you do," David said. "You've got lore."
Max didn't answer. He walked, David keeping pace beside him.
"Anyway," David continued, "Priya says Reina's running around like she hasn't slept in a week. So if she grabs you again, that's probably why."
That made Max slow slightly.
"Again?" he asked.
David smirked. "See? You expect it now."
Max didn't like that thought.
It happened before second period.
Reina found him near the stairwell, phone pressed to her ear, clipboard tucked under her arm. She waved him over without breaking the call.
"Yes—no, I know it's not ideal. I'll fix it. I said I'll fix it."
She hung up and exhaled sharply, then looked at Max like she was seeing him for the first time that morning.
"Good," she said. "You're here."
"I was going to class."
"So was I," she replied. "Plans change."
She reached into her bag and pulled something out.
It wasn't big. Not impressive. Just a simple badge on a lanyard—white with the committee seal, his name printed neatly beneath it.
Max Holloway — Operations Support Unit
He stared at it.
Reina watched his face carefully, like she was bracing for pushback.
"It's temporary," she said quickly. "Just for this week. It lets people know you're allowed to help with logistics. Access rooms. Carry equipment. Answer basic questions."
"I don't know anything," Max said.
"You know enough," she replied. "And you listen."
She held the badge out.
He didn't take it right away.
The plastic felt heavier than it should when he finally did.
Reina relaxed a fraction. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not making this harder than it already is."
She glanced at the clock and winced. "I have to run. Wear it visibly. And—Max?"
He looked up.
"If anyone gives you trouble, send them to me."
Then she was gone, heels clicking down the hall, already swallowed by her schedule.
Max stood there with the badge dangling from his fingers.
Marked.
By lunch, the badge had changed everything.
People approached him—hesitant, polite, unsure.
"Hey, um… do you know where the spare chairs are?"
"Sorry—are banners being moved today?"
"Are we allowed to use the west hallway?"
Each question was small. Manageable.
Together, they were overwhelming.
Max answered what he could. Redirected what he couldn't. More than once, he had to say, "I'm not sure," and feel the disappointment flicker across someone's face before they nodded and moved on.
He hated that part the most.
The badge rested against his chest, warm through his shirt.
At one point, he caught himself gripping it without realizing.
Sera found him near the vending machines.
She didn't say anything at first—just leaned against the wall beside him, eyes flicking to the badge.
"…Wow," she said. "They really did it."
"Did what."
"Put a target on you."
He huffed quietly. "It's just a badge."
She glanced at him sideways. "That's what worries me."
They stood there in companionable silence, the hum of the machines filling the gap.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I think so."
She didn't look convinced.
After a moment, she said, "Hey. On Friday—during the exhibition—"
He stiffened slightly.
"—if you're not drowning in responsibilities," she continued, carefully, "I was thinking we could disappear for a bit. Just… walk around. Eat something dumb."
Not a demand. Not a plan.
An opening.
Max looked at her. Really looked. At the way she wasn't teasing. Wasn't pushing. Just offering.
"I don't know what my schedule will look like," he said honestly.
"That's fine," she replied. "I'm not asking for a contract."
She smiled faintly. "Just… don't vanish, okay?"
He nodded.
"I'll try."
It wasn't a promise.
But it wasn't a no.
That seemed to be enough for her.
Later, alone in the stairwell, Max unclipped the badge and turned it over in his hands.
It was simple. Harmless-looking.
And yet—
With it on, people expected things from him. Without it, he felt like he was failing them.
He clipped it back on before heading to class.
Not because he was ready.
But because backing out felt worse.
That night, in his apartment, Max set the badge on the desk beside his notebook.
He stared at it for a long time.
Monday wasn't dramatic. It didn't break him. It didn't define him.
It just marked him.
And as he turned off the light and lay back on the bed, one thought lingered longer than the rest:
Friday wasn't asking for much yet.
But it would.
Soon.