By Tuesday, the badge stopped feeling like a favor.
It hung from his neck on a thin lanyard, light enough that he forgot it was there—until he didn't. Until someone stopped him in the hall with a question. Until a teacher nodded at him like he belonged somewhere specific now. Until a group of underclassmen stepped aside because they thought he had somewhere important to be.
It wasn't authority.
It was expectation.
"Hey, Holloway—where do these go?"
"Holloway, Reina said to check with you."
"Are you part of the committee now?"
"Does this mean you're working the Exhibition on Friday?"
He answered when he had to. Nodded when he didn't know what to say. Kept moving so no one could pin him down long enough to ask the wrong question.
By Wednesday, people had stopped asking if he was involved.
They just assumed.
The rumors evolved the way rumors always did—by simplifying him.
He was no longer the transfer. No longer the quiet one from 2-B.
Now he was Reina Takamine's guy.
Not her boyfriend. Not officially. Just… attached.
"Did you see how she looks at him?"
"He's wearing the committee badge—she wouldn't give that to just anyone."
"Ryo doesn't look happy about it."
"Yeah, but Holloway doesn't look scared either."
That last one wasn't true.
Max felt watched constantly. Not openly. Not cruelly. Just enough to make him aware of his posture, his expression, the way he stood near Reina during meetings without standing too near.
The badge bounced lightly against his chest when he walked. He started noticing it in reflections. Glass doors. Lockers. Windows.
A reminder: You are visible now.
Reina trusted him more with each passing hour.
Not loudly. Not with speeches or gratitude. With delegation.
"Can you handle the front desk schedule?"
"Hold onto this for me."
"Tell them we'll need more outlets."
"Make the call if I'm not there."
She stopped double-checking his work.
Stopped hovering.
At some point, she stopped asking and started assuming he'd already handled things.
It unsettled him.
Reina was precise. Controlled. She didn't give trust casually. And yet—here he was, carrying clipboards, keys, lists that mattered.
"You're good at this," she said on Wednesday afternoon, not even looking up from her phone.
"I'm just following instructions," Max replied.
She smiled faintly. "That's what people who are good at things always say."
He didn't know how to respond to that. So he didn't.
By Wednesday evening, exhaustion crept in sideways.
Not physical—he'd been through worse. Mental. Social. A low-grade pressure that never fully released.
The badge felt heavier then.
Not in weight. In meaning.
He took it off once in the bathroom, staring at it in his hand like it might explain itself if he waited long enough. The metal was warm from his body. Smudged where his fingers had touched it too often.
He clipped it back on before anyone could notice.
That night, lying on his bed, Max replayed the week in fragments.
Reina's voice saying his name without hesitation. People stepping aside. The way teachers looked relieved when they saw the badge. The way the halls seemed to narrow the closer Friday came.
He thought about Sera. About the promise that hadn't been spoken out loud but existed anyway.
We'll hang out during the Exhibition.
Simple. Normal. Something he could understand.
The thought grounded him more than anything else had all week.
By Thursday morning, the school felt coiled.
Posters everywhere. Equipment stacked in corners. Teachers moving around like a map was drawn perfectly in the mind. Students buzzing with anticipation that had nowhere to go yet.
And Max—
Max stood in the middle of it, badge resting against his chest, role half-defined, attention sharpening around him whether he wanted it or not.
Friday was close now.
Close enough that the waiting had started to hurt.