Max woke to sunlight cutting through the blinds in thin, militant lines.
Friday.
The day of the Cultural Exhibition.
For a moment he stayed still, letting the last traces of sleep fade before his brain caught up with his body. The room was quiet in a way that felt temporary—like sound was waiting outside the door, ready to flood in the second he moved.
He sat up, stretched once, and dragged himself out of bed.
His uniform was already hanging from the closet door, the way he'd left it last night so he wouldn't forget. Not the full formal version—Reina had been very specific—just the white shirt, dark slacks, tie loosely knotted, sleeves rolled twice to mid-forearm. There was no blazer today. "Too stiff," she'd said. It was a little too specific but Max didn't mind.
Two additions hung with his uniform:
The festival badge.
The committee armband, red fabric with printed block letters that read: OPERATIONS SUPPORT UNIT.
Reina had slapped it onto his desk yesterday with, "Anyone in crisis comes to you—don't run."
He'd thought she was joking. She hadn't been.
Max dressed piece by piece, each layer making the morning feel more real. Shirt. Tie. Belt. The badge went on last, resting against his chest like a command. The armband tightened just above his elbow, snug but not uncomfortable.
In the mirror, he looked like someone halfway between a student and a staff member—a middle ground he never asked for but somehow kept being pushed into.
He grabbed his phone, keys, and headed out.
The streets outside the apartment were surprisingly calm. Shops were just opening, shutters rattling up, bread steaming behind glass, posters taped to lampposts advertising the Exhibition with bright ink and exclamation marks.
Crowds thickened as he got closer to the academy—parents with cameras, students in uniform groups, strangers following hand-drawn maps, chatting in languages Max didn't recognize. It felt like the whole city was drifting toward one point.
When the school gates came into view, the noise swelled.
Color. Movement. Laughter.
Banners swayed overhead. Clubs set up booths along the courtyard. Music leaked from open windows. Teachers directed foot traffic with megaphones and pained expressions. It was chaos, but organized chaos.
Max scanned the entrance for Reina. He
didn't find her—but she didn't need to be seen to be present. Her instructions lived in the environment: signs taped at the right angles, stations labeled in neat handwriting, volunteers wearing matching armbands.
One of them spotted him immediately.
"Holloway! Over here!"
A boy from student council jogged over, half breathless, half panicked. "Reina said you're support unit. Can you help unload props from the theater wing?"
"Sure," Max said automatically.
"Bless you," the boy sighed, darting off to shout instructions at the next unfortunate volunteer.
And just like that, Max was pulled into the current.
The theater props turned out to be really heavy, splintered, and poorly labeled. Max hauled crates across the courtyard, dodging kids dressed like samurai, someone in a giant cardboard robot suit, and a teacher carrying incense for the tea ceremony club.
By the second trip, he was sweating. By the third, he'd stopped wondering where Reina was—this was exactly the kind of ghost operation she excelled at: dozens of people moving because she'd planned for them to.
Somewhere along the path, a teacher waved him down.
"Holloway! Could you carry these sound panels to the gym?"
He nodded, adjusting his grip.
On the way, parents watched with polite admiration, probably assuming he was the responsible type. Students just let him pass—they recognized the badge and armband.
Halfway through the fourth trip, a voice cut through the noise:
"Hey."
Max turned.
Sera stood at the edge of the courtyard, wearing a hoodie over her uniform, hair tied in a high ribbon, lanyard around her neck but no armband. A small bag hung off her shoulder—festival-ready.
She looked different from yesterday—lighter, like she'd shed something. But her gaze lingered on his badge and armband, eyebrows lifting with amusement.
"You look official."
"I am," Max said dryly. "Apparently."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial.
"You wanna ditch after you're done here?"
Max blinked. "Ditch?"
"Hang out," she corrected. "Walk around.
See stuff. You know, the whole point of festivals."
He adjusted the box in his arms. "You're asking now?"
She nodded once. "Before someone else steals you for labor."
Max opened his mouth—but from behind him, someone shouted:
"Holloway! The props are falling over!"
Max shut his eyes for a beat.
Sera smirked. "Duty calls. I'll catch you later."
He watched her melt into the crowd before turning back to the crisis—several cardboard castle pieces were indeed collapsing like sad medieval dominos.
He rushed over, grabbed the largest panel before it flattened a freshman, and set it upright again.
"Thanks, man," the freshman breathed. "You're like an NPC quest helper."
Max stared at him. "What."
"Never mind—can you carry that one to the stage?"
And there he went again.
Time fractured into tasks.
Carry props.
Run cables.
Move chairs.
Answer questions from lost parents.
Every time Max finished something, someone else materialized with another request—like the badge was a magical beacon for problems.
At one point, a little kid tugged his sleeve.
"Mister! Where's the martial arts room?"
Max pointed down the hall. "Second floor, turn right."
"Mister?" Max muttered under his breath.
He kept moving.
Between assignments, he scanned the crowds for Sera—checking booths, scanning doorways, glancing out windows. No luck.
He spotted David and Priya at the newspaper stand—David wearing a hat shaped like a shrimp for no discernible reason—who waved frantically at him.
"Max!! Congrats on the promotion!!!" David shouted.
"It's not a promotion," Max said.
Priya smirked. "You say that, but you're literally making the Exhibition function right now."
"Also, did you see any empty lockers nearby?" David asked. "I need somewhere to store shrimp materials."
Max blinked. "No."
He moved on.
By noon, the first wave of visitors had arrived in force. Performances boomed from the gym. Food stalls perfumed the air with grilled meat and sugar. Cosplay groups formed impromptu photoshoots by the fountain.
Max had just finished guiding a group of parents toward the auditorium when a voice called out:
"Holloway!"
He turned—expecting chaos—but instead found Sera again, leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed.
"Wow," she said. "You're still alive."
"Barely."
"You free now?"
Max was about to say yes—when a breathless committee girl came barreling toward him.
"Holloway, we need bodies—one of the tents is collapsing—can you—?!"
Max looked between her and Sera.
Sera sighed—not angry, but resigned, like she had expected this.
"Just go," she said. "If I get crushed by a cosplay parade while waiting for you, that's on you."
"I'll be the one to find you this time," he said.
"You better."
And she was gone again—vanishing into the flow of students before he could stop her.
Max turned, grabbed a rope, and helped three other kids keep a canopy from folding into scrap metal. He shouldered poles, hammered stakes, tightened lines until the tent stood steady again.
By the time they finished, sweat glued his shirt to his back and his hands were numb.
He checked the time. 12:42 AM.
Lunch crowd peak.
Which meant Sera was somewhere in the heaviest swarm.
Max pushed through the courtyard, scanning faces. He checked the cafe stalls, the manga club gallery, the music hall entrance, the tea ceremony room. No traces. No ribbon. No jacket.
But everywhere he went:
"Holloway, can you lift this?"
"Holloway, can you check the map?"
"Holloway, we're out of change—what do I do?"
He answered as fast as he could, like swatting flies off a single thought:
Find Sera.
He circled through the gym, where the martial arts club was sparring. For a heartbeat he thought he saw her by the bleachers—but it was just a girl with a similar ribbon.
He cut back into the hallway, breath quickening with the noise and heat. Someone tapped his shoulder—he turned, ready to help—
But it was just a little kid asking for directions again.
By the time he reached the courtyard the second time, the sky had gone a deeper blue, sunlight washing everything in festival color.
Max stopped in the shade of a banner.
Crowds streamed around him—laughing, shouting, chasing each other with glow sticks from the merchandise booth—and for a moment he felt like he was standing still in the middle of a world that refused to stop moving.
He looked down at his badge, at the armband, at the sweat on his palms.
He had made a promise.
He intended to keep it.
Max took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped back into the current.
If the Exhibition wanted to pull him everywhere—
So be it.
But he told himself he would find her.
One way or another.