When Leadership Means Pretending You’re Fine

All the screens in Harmonia City flickered at once—student devices, public monitors, even the holo-ads that usually blared obnoxious jingles. Every single one now projected the same pre-recorded message in SOLON’s voice.

“Attention, all students. Please return to your dormitories and remain there until it is announced safe. Harmonia is currently experiencing a security threat. Please stay calm. The student council is managing the situation.”

The announcement looped, relentlessly, as if sheer repetition would hammer the point home. It wasn’t comforting. It was ominous. And judging by the chaos erupting outside, no one was staying calm.

Under Haruki’s directives, Kaito had mobilized the disciplinary committee—a team of students trained for emergencies. Normally, they spent their time enforcing curfews, breaking up petty arguments, and confiscating contraband energy drinks. But today? Today they were soldiers.

The committee members stood in formation, dressed in their combat suits and anti-gravity boots. The suits were reinforced to withstand electricity and intense heat. Built-in enhancements improved the wearer’s physical abilities just enough to make a difference in high-stakes situations.

This wasn’t standard-issue gear for students. This was high-level tech, usually reserved for firefighters and police officers. And in their relatively peaceful society, even those professions rarely suited up like this. The sight of the committee armed and ready sent a clear message: whatever was happening, it was bad.

Kaito paced in front of the lined-up student soldiers, his expression the usual blank slate, except for the faint crease between his brows that betrayed his concern. He was worried. About SOLON, about Miyuu, and about the fraying thread their future was dangling from. This was big. Monumental. The kind of thing that could change life as they knew it.

He hated how the future suddenly felt like a fragile, uncertain thing—one wrong move away from shattering. Kaito’s mind churned through scenarios, plans, contingencies, all while that crease in his brow deepened.

He shook his head, shoving his thoughts aside. Focus. Worry wasn’t useful right now. From the corner of his eye, he caught the looks of disbelief in the ranks—wide eyes, raised brows. Apparently, Vice President Kaito showing emotion was breaking news.

“Suzuki!” He barked, cutting through the din.

“Yes, sir!” Yuuto Suzuki, the mint-green-haired boy snapped to attention, stepping forward with a salute that was more reflex than confidence.

“Take Unit 5.” Kaito instructed. “Station someone at every dorm entrance. Prioritize demobilizing all bots in the dorms, including cleaning units. Ensure the students’ safety and focus on keeping them calm.”

“Yes, sir!” Yuuto’s voice wavered slightly, but he didn’t hesitate. He turned on his heel, ready to execute, but Kaito wasn’t finished.

“We’ll do everything we can to return your sister safely. I promise.”

Yuuto froze. His posture stiffened and worry flickered across his face. “Thank you, sir.” He murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor as his hands curled into tight fists.

Kaito inclined his head in acknowledgment, then, in a move that felt both formal and deeply personal, he bowed—just enough to convey sincerity without undermining his authority.

“I apologize.” Kaito said. “On behalf of myself and the student council. For allowing your sister’s life to be put in danger.”

Yuuto’s breath hitched at the unexpected formality. “No—no, please don’t bow!” Yuuto stammered, his voice rising with a mix of embarrassment and desperation. “It’s not your fault! Natsuki… She’s a little weird. She unintentionally lands herself in trouble. But she’s a good kid. Please help her!”

Kaito straightened, his voice firm. “We will.”

Yuuto nodded, swallowing hard. His posture straightened as he turned back to his team, his uncertainty replaced with determination. Barking orders with newfound focus, he rallied his unit, preparing to move out.

Kaito watched them leave. For all his discipline, for all his meticulous control, his thoughts strayed once again. To Miyuu. To Natsuki. To the chaos threatening to consume everything they were meant to protect.

Focus, he reminded himself. Worry could wait. Action couldn’t.

.

Shion sat in the library, slouched so low in his chair he was practically horizontal. What a drag.

SOLON’s systems were under attack, and while the AI’s firewalls were legendary, even they had their limits. The sheer scale of the assault was overwhelming, and SOLON couldn’t keep up on his own anymore. Bots connected to his systems were dropping like flies all over the city.

Shion’s cyber eye projected a data stream across his field of vision. He glanced at the Biomec owl, perched on the console next to him. SOLON’s feathers were ruffled and discoloured. The creature—the one that had practically raised him—tilted its head awkwardly, the ice pack strapped to it slipping slightly with the movement. It chirped faintly, a weak sound that sent an uncomfortable twinge through his chest.

Shion scanned it out of habit, his eye spitting out a stream of stats: Core temperature elevated. Response time down by 40%. Internal systems compromised: 30%.

Yikes.

“This is looking bad.” Shion muttered, dragging his hands down his face before reaching for his comically oversized coffee mug. The liquid inside was cold, bitter, and probably strong enough to wake the dead. He took a long sip anyway.

He blinked open multiple holographic screens in front of him. Shion’s fingers moved over the glowing projections, tapping, swiping, and rearranging like he was playing the world’s most frustrating game of virtual chess. He was trying to patch holes in SOLON’s systems, each one a potential entry point for the virus.

Shion was worried about SOLON. The bird had been with them since Harmonia was just an orphanage—a brutal, unforgiving training ground that churned out survivors with polished manners and razor-sharp instincts. SOLON wasn’t just some school mascot. SOLON was family. The biomec owl had taught them everything they knew, had shaped who they were. And now, seeing him faltering, his systems in disarray, felt wrong. Like the ground beneath Shion’s feet had cracked, and he was just waiting for the drop.

And then there was Miyuu. The ridiculous girl who’d barged into their lives like a tornado with no warning, no plan, and absolutely no respect for their meticulously structured existence. She upended their routines, disrupted their carefully balanced systems, and generally turned everything upside down. It was chaotic. It was exhausting. And, it was also strangely entertaining.

Shion enjoyed teaching and watching Miyuu grow had been particularly satisfying. She was stubborn and impulsive, which made her an excellent sparring partner (mentally, emotionally, and physically). But it also made her a magnet for trouble.

When he found Miyuu’s student device in Natsuki’s room, his chest had tightened in a way he didn’t care to analyse too deeply. He’d felt it immediately: the distress, the guilt. They’d been so busy dealing with the attack on SOLON’s systems that they hadn’t realized until far too late that Miyuu had run off. If they’d only noticed sooner, maybe she wouldn’t be passed out right now. Maybe they wouldn’t be facing the indignity of Bolts storming into their office, armed with more information than they had.

And yet… Shion couldn’t untangle the mess of emotions twisting inside him. Anger? Oh, definitely. He was furious. Furious that Miyuu, once again, had acted on pure impulse, charging headfirst into danger without a plan. Furious that she’d put herself at risk like this. But also—annoyingly—proud. Proud that she’d risk it all to save a friend, that she had that kind of loyalty and courage.

Not that it excused anything. No, she still made his life harder. If Miyuu hadn’t pulled her usual stunt, they’d only have one hostage to deal with. Now, thanks to her, they had two: one brilliant chemist and one classified, top-secret state experiment.

“Extra work…” Shion muttered, rubbing his temples. “She’s always giving me extra work.”

If she was still alive after this mess, Shion was going to strangle her. Or give her extra homework for a month. Whichever required less energy.

A crackle in his earpiece snapped him out of his internal grumbling.

“I’m sending backup!” Riku’s voice buzzed in his ear. It was far too cheerful for the situation at hand. Typical Riku.

“Great.” Shion grunted, already dreading the noise.

The library door swished open, and a line of his best students filed in, each of them looking more nervous than the last. They carried their own gear—EchoDecks, holo-terminals, and at least one dubious-looking backpack stuffed with cables.

Shion glanced at them, then looked back at his work. “Take a station. Don’t screw up.”

“Yes, sir!” One of them chirped. Shion cringed. Too loud.

As the students got to work, Shion leaned back in his chair, coffee balanced precariously on his knee. His eye scanned the room as his mind raced through the logistics.

How long was this going to take? He wondered, his fingers tapping idly on the desk. I could really use a nap.

.

Haruki was currently sitting in his office, pale as a ghost.

A massive holographic map of Harmonia City hovered above the table in front of him. 

Red blips crawled across the map—infected bots, spreading like a digital plague. Blue dots marked the student council members, clustered in strategic positions like pieces on a very stressful chessboard. Orange blips showed the Units, deployed in tight formations. And then there were the yellow ones—the stragglers, students who hadn’t made it to the dormitories yet. Every second those yellow dots stayed outside, they were potential targets. The map was a visual reminder that everything was spiralling out of control, one blip at a time.

Riku was hyper-focused, issuing precise orders like the consummate strategist he was. His voice was sharp and controlled as he coordinated with the other council members. “Kaito, deploy Unit 3 to the western district.” Every now and then, Riku’s gaze darted toward Haruki, like he was double-checking that he hadn’t fully unravelled yet.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Miyuu. The brat his life had been so much simpler without. When Renjiro Tsukishima had handed her over, defeated and desperate, Haruki had seen it as just another job. A delinquent with a bad track record and worse manners. Someone to straighten out, push through the system, and move on.

She was supposed to be just another spoiled problem child.

And yet, somehow, she’d wormed her way into his life. Into his heart, if he was being honest about it. He didn’t know when it had happened, but he’d grown attached to her. Stupidly, painfully attached.

She’d turned the manor upside down in ways that made him want to scream... and sometimes laugh when no one was looking.

Like the time she hacked into the manor’s PA system during a formal meeting with Harmonia's sponsors. In the middle of Haruki delivering a very serious, very rehearsed speech about the future of education, Miyuu had inserted an audio loop of a certain someone’s embarrassing karaoke attempt from last year’s council retreat. Haruki didn’t even know how she’d found that recording, but the muffled snickers from Jun and Riku still haunted him.

 Or the time she reprogrammed the cleaning bots to shout “VIP escort for Her Majesty Miyuu!” whenever they approached her. She’d strutted down the halls like she was royalty for a week before Shion finally fixed it.

Then there was the infamous “Disappearing Schedules” incident, where she temporarily wiped everyone’s schedules from their student devices. Haruki had spent hours tracking her down, only to find her sitting on the roof with a smug grin and a bag of chips, claiming she was “teaching them the value of spontaneity.”

But it wasn’t just the chaos. There were moments—small, fleeting moments—that had chipped away at his walls. Like when she’d stayed up all night helping Shion test a new system, even though she’d clearly been running on fumes. Or the time she taught the younger students how to bypass a basic firewall, making them promise to use their newfound skills “for good...ish.”

And then there was the day she brought home that stray cat, drenched from the rain and looking like a drowned rat. She’d cradled it in her arms like it was the most precious thing in the world and wouldn’t leave its side until it was warm, dry, and fed. Haruki had grumbled about her bringing “another mouth to feed” into the manor, but she’d just smiled and said, “You’re soft, too, you just hide it better.”

Somewhere along the way, between the pranks and the quiet kindness, she’d become more than a responsibility. More than just some troublemaker he had to fix. She’d become family.

He wanted to protect her.

And now, that ridiculous, infuriating, wonderful girl was out there—alone and in danger—and he was here. Sitting in his office like some useless bureaucrat. It made his skin crawl, the thought of staying put while she needed him.

“Haruki.” Riku’s voice snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I know that.” Haruki muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Did he? Because every instinct screamed at him to leave. To barge into the abandoned labs and drag her out himself. But that wasn’t an option. Not yet.

He wasn’t just responsible for Miyuu. He was responsible for every student in Harmonia City. For their safety, their lives. And if he acted rashly—if he made even one wrong move—Unity First might retaliate. They might harm Miyuu. Natsuki. Or escalate even further.

Riku didn’t let up. “You know running in now is too risky.” He said bluntly, like he could see right through Haruki’s fraying patience. “You need to hold it together. If we fail to control this, it won’t matter what happens to Miyuu. We’ll lose everything.”

Haruki exhaled sharply, and slammed his hands on the table. He hated that Riku was right. He hated that he couldn’t do what he wanted. He hated that Miyuu was out there, relying on them, and all he could do was wait.

But he couldn’t let himself fall apart.

So, he stared at the map and willed himself to focus. “Send Jun to the southern district. Make sure all dormitories are secure. Don’t let the bots reach the main gate.”

He’d get her back. Somehow, he’d get her back. But right now, he had to keep the rest of the city standing.

.

Bolts let out a chaotic laugh, the kind that would make anyone within earshot consider calling the police. “Did you see their faces? Priceless. Absolutely priceless.” He was referring, of course, to his grand entrance into the student council's office with intel on Miyuu and the infected bots. The memory of their stunned expressions was enough to keep him amused for days.

He zipped through the city streets on his hoverboard. K.A.T.O.'s holographic fox form was curled around his neck like a neon scarf.

"You’re enjoying this way too much." K.A.T.O. muttered.

"Why shouldn’t I?" Bolts grinned, pulling his wrench from his tool belt. It was no ordinary wrench—it crackled with energy, glowing faintly with a custom modification he lovingly called “Wreck-It Mode.” He turned a corner, spotted a waitress bot twitching in a corrupted frenzy, and swung. The wrench connected with a satisfying zap, lighting the bot up like a fireworks display before it crumbled into a heap of smoking parts.

“Love this thing.” Bolts muttered, patting the wrench lovingly.

He barely had time to savour the moment before an unlucky bot came hurtling through the air, its limbs flailing as it crashed into a nearby building. Bolts screeched to a halt, his hoverboard wobbling dangerously as he turned to look in the direction the bot had flown from.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Jun. Sweet, gentle, always-smiling Jun. Except Jun wasn’t smiling now. Dressed in his combat suit, his cheerful demeanour had been replaced by something terrifying. His usually soft eyes were sharp, focused, and filled with barely-contained fury.

Jun moved through the street like a whirlwind, taking on the infected bots in a one-sided massacre. A combat drone swooped down at him, its plasma cannon charging up, but Jun didn’t even flinch. He caught the bot mid-air, twisted its arm off like it was made of cardboard, and hurled it into another bot, creating an explosion of sparks and shrapnel.

Another bot lunged at him from behind, claws extended, but Jun sidestepped effortlessly, grabbing its leg and slamming it into the ground with enough force to leave a crater. He didn’t stop there. With a swift motion, he ripped its core out and flung it into a third bot, sending both into a fiery heap.

Bolts watched, slack-jawed, as Jun grabbed a vending bot, flipped it over his shoulder, and used it as a shield to block an incoming barrage of lasers. The vending bot, still spitting out snack packets as it disintegrated, provided just enough cover for Jun to close the distance and punch a security droid so hard its head spun 180 degrees before it collapsed.

“Is he… is he angry?” Bolts asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Uh, yeah.” K.A.T.O. replied flatly. “Very.”

Jun didn’t speak, didn’t yell, didn’t even grunt with effort. He was a machine of pure destruction, dismantling bots left and right. Every strike, every move, was loaded with a fury that Jun rarely—if ever—let out.

“He’s supposed to be the nice one…” Bolts muttered, gripping his wrench.

“He is the nice one.” K.A.T.O. deadpanned. “You should see what happens when the others get angry. Just ask Miyuu.”

As if on cue, Jun ripped a bot’s arm off and used it to smack another bot into the ground, the sound reverberating through the street like a thunderclap. He turned to face another wave of infected bots, his expression eerily calm.

Bolts gulped.

For a moment, the street fell silent, save for the crackle of sparking wires and the distant footsteps of bots approaching from further down. Jun straightened, his combat suit scorched but intact, his breathing steady as if he’d just finished a light workout.

He turned and locked eyes with Bolts. The soft smile was back, but now it just felt... unsettling. “Are you alright?” Jun asked, his voice as gentle as ever, like he hadn’t just single-handedly destroyed half a squadron of bots.

Bolts blinked, clutching his wrench a little tighter. “Uh... yeah. Totally. Great. Thanks for, uh, that.” He gestured vaguely to the carnage.

Jun nodded, completely unbothered. “Good. Let’s move. There’s still work to do.”

As Jun walked past, Bolts whispered to K.A.T.O., “Remind me to double-check my life insurance.”