Chapter 31: Our School, That Moment, and the Beginning

We arrive at school, and already the chaos greets us like an overly enthusiastic welcoming committee.

In the distance—there she is.

Mariam.

Standing at the front gate, megaphone in hand like a war general.

“WELCOME BACK!!!! Don’t forget to attend the IGNITE Festival!! Please cast your vote!! Share your insight for our school!!!”

She’s yelling like she’s trying to be heard across state lines. I take one step forward—and immediately regret it.

Without warning, Mariam teleports in front of me, megaphone now six inches from my face.

BWAAAAAAAAHH!!!

“WELCOME BACK ALEX!!!!”

My eardrums explode. I stagger backward as my soul briefly separates from my body.

“What the hell was that?! Are you trying to kill me?!” I shout, practically choking.

Sylvia grabs my sleeve and yanks me out of the line of fire. “Let’s go before she reloads!”

But we barely make it five steps before another student rushes up.

“Hey, Alex! Join our club? We’ve got cool jackets!”

“Sorry bro... I’ve got commitments.”

“Aww, come on, man!”

This place is a circus.

And just as I think I’m about to escape…

“Baaaabe~!! I missed you!!”

WHUMP.

Two soft missiles slam into my face—Priscilla wraps her arms around me and buries my face in her chest like it’s a pillow.

“Ghh—mmph—!! H-hey!! This is NOT CPR!!”

Sylvia’s hand shoots out, yanking me free with all the wrath of a jealous goddess. “Step. Back.”

And then, amid the chaos, comes the voice I’ve been dreading.

“Sempai!”

I freeze.

Shinji stands in front of me, eyes lowered, posture humble. He bows so deeply his forehead nearly touches the floor.

“…You again.”

He stays bowed. “Please… hit me if you want to. I was out of line. I just… I want to prove I’m serious.”

Sylvia steps in beside me, whispering gently, “Darling… just talk to him, okay?”

But all I see is the past.

Blood.

Natalie screaming.

My fists clenched.

Hiew’s grin.

The warehouse.

The gun.

My heart thumps hard against my ribs.

“…Leave me alone,” I mutter and walk past him, not daring to look back.

I enter the class and drop into my seat like dead weight.

The laughter outside fades into a dull hum.

The clones.
Mom.
Frederica.
Sylvia’s tears.
My own scars.

All of it swirls inside my head like a storm that never ends.

Because of me.

I chuckle to myself bitterly.

“…I’m really stubborn, huh…”

The moment I step into class, the atmosphere shifts like a storm brewing.

Mr. Rahim freezes mid-step, marker still in hand. He stares at me as if I’ve just crawled out of a grave.

He marches over, grabs my face with both hands, and squints into my eyes.

“Is this... really Alex?”

Around the class, hushed whispers ripple.

“The body looks like him…”

“But the aura… something feels off.”

I sigh, brushing his hands away. “It’s me, damn it. What the hell’s with that reaction?”

Mr. Rahim blinks, then suddenly breaks into a proud grin.

“Well, guess what… you passed my test!”

“…Huh?” I tilt my head. “What test?”

Wait—Oh. That stupid test he gave before my “disappearance.” Guess this man never gave up on his teacher instincts.

Mr. Rahim opens his mouth again—but he doesn’t get far.

WHAM!!

A shadow crashes into me from the side like a meteor.

“BROOOOOO!!!”

It’s Amin. And he’s bawling like I just ghosted his wedding.

He grabs my collar and yanks me close, fists trembling.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR!? JUST TALK TO HIM ALREADY!!”

Tears stream down his cheeks like a damn faucet.

“Bro, Shinji’s trying, okay!? Don’t make me beg!!”

Before I can speak, Mariam storms in right after.

“BRO!!! That was ice-cold!! What’s wrong with you!?” she barks, hands on her hips. “You’re acting like you just stepped out of a gangster movie again!”

I try to explain. I really do. But my mouth won’t move. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to Shinji… it’s just…

I’m not ready.

I glance sideways.

Maya, our ever-composed class monitor—not to be confused with the little Maya from Hana’s year—steps forward nervously.

“Umm… Mariam… Amin… maybe let’s not crowd him like that…”

The class?

Stiff as boards. Wide-eyed. Pale. Like someone just pulled the pin from a grenade and dropped it on the floor.

😱🥶😨🤯😱

Me?

I start inching backward. One slow step at a time.

“Bro…?” Amin eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you backing away?”

“…Don’t move,” I whisper.

He freezes. “Huh?”

“It’s like you’re stepping on a landmine…”

The class erupts into chaos.

“THE CAPTAIN IS GONNA EXPLODE!!!”

Someone dives out the window.

Chairs flip. Desks fall. Bags get launched like missiles. Students scream as they leap from every possible exit.

“EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF!!!”

CRASH! Mr. Rahim tries to move—only to get steamrolled.

SPLAT.

Amin goes down on top of him.

Mariam trips over both of them and falls too.

It’s like a human pancake pileup.

Mr. Rahim groans from underneath, his glasses crooked, tie twisted around his ear.

“I’m… too old for this crap…”

And me?

I just stand there, blinking at the apocalypse around me.

“…You guys really missed me that much?”

Cue soft jazz fade-out and the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

It’s pure chaos.
Again.

I swear—why is it always like this when Mr. Rahim is teaching? Can’t we have one peaceful class that doesn’t feel like a warzone!?

I slide back into the room through the broken window frame (don’t ask), dodging a falling chair mid-air, and land with a sigh. My shirt’s torn at the sleeve from earlier. At this point, I’m starting to question whether this is school… or a boot camp run by a deranged pirate.

At the center of the chaos is the man himself — Captain Rahim — flat on the floor like a shipwreck survivor.

“…Geez.” I scoop him up and plop him back into his seat.
Dust his coat. Pat his shoulders. Adjust his necktie.

He coughs out sand like he just got slapped by the desert wind. “Ughh… rowdy bunch o’ buggers…” he groans, blinking like he just got reincarnated.

I swear I hear wind fluttering through the window. Papers fly around like confetti.

Mr. Rahim rubs his eyes and suddenly grins, handing me a paper.
“You did well on the test, mate. Like a bloody natural.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Uh… thanks, I guess.”

I glance at the paper.
100/100.
Wait, huh?

“Since when did I get perfect marks…?” I mutter.

He crosses his arms, puffing out his chest like a proud sensei.
“History, geopolitics, global subterfuge. You’re sharp, lad. Got an eye for reading between lines. Tells me you’re the type who’s seen things.”

Well, yeah. I’ve seen a bit too much, really.
Thanks to Natalie… and Mr. Hawk, those midnight lectures in his library in Arizona finally paid off.

“I guess I’ve always been interested in that kinda stuff…” I reply, scratching my head.

Mr. Rahim chuckles and leans closer, eyes glinting. “Say, you know a woman named Phylis? Sharp tongue, British as the Queen, eyes that make grown men cry?”

I blink. “Wait… you know Phylis?”

He bursts out laughing. “Know her!? Boy, I survived her!”

Okay, now that paints a terrifying image.

“I studied with her at the University of Arizona. Back in ’91. She was one year below me. Ruthless. Brilliant. She once chucked a typewriter at a dean. Legend.”

“That… sounds like Phylis.”

He smirks. “Heard she had a little sister. Natalie, was it?”

My heart pauses for a beat.

“Yeah…” I nod quietly. “She’s… someone important to me. We grew up together. Back when I was… in America. Since 1995.”

Mr. Rahim’s expression softens. For a brief moment, the fire in his eyes dims — replaced by something older. Wiser.

“Then you already know what kind of future you’re carrying on your back, Alex.”

I freeze.
He’s looking at me not like a teacher now… but like a veteran recognizing another soldier.

“And if you ever need to unload that weight…” he adds, with a rare seriousness, “…make sure you’ve got people around who’ll carry it with you.”

I stare at him.
For all his loudmouth antics and dramatic monologues, this man really is something else.

“…Thanks, Mr. Rahim.”

He slaps the table and stands. “Alright! Enough with the bloody life lessons! Back to class, all of you—if you’re not climbing windows, you’re not learning anything!!”

The students peek from the hallway like scared rabbits.

“Y-Yes, sir!!”

I smirk.
Welcome back, chaos.

And maybe… welcome back, me.

Mariam and Amin barge into the classroom like nothing just exploded five minutes ago. Mariam taps my back with her usual smug grin.

“Nice one, bro.” She flashes a proud smirk. “Full-on main character energy just now.”

I groan. “Yeah… with that kind of stunt, I’m not sure Mr. Rahim’s mental health’s gonna last another semester.”

“Bro!! That was epic!” Amin beams, completely ignoring the fact that he just bulldozed our poor English teacher like a runaway truck.

But then—

A chill crawls up my spine.

I glance back.

Oh no.

There he is.

Mr. Rahim. Standing behind them. Eyes glowing. Literal shonen villain energy. Hair slightly ruffled. Shirt half untucked. Glasses crooked. And smiling.

That’s never good.

My survival instincts scream. I bolt straight to my seat, sliding into it like I’m hiding from the Grim Reaper. My classmates follow suit—chairs scrape, bags fly, and bam, perfect silence. We all sit stiff, facing forward like model students.

Amin blinks in confusion, still standing.

“Uh… guys?” he says.

No response.

“Bro?” He eyes me suspiciously. “Why’re you sitting that fast like you're in a military camp?”

All of us subtly shake our heads. 🥶

Mariam’s lips twitch into a tight smile. She glides to her seat beside me like she didn’t just trample a grown man thirty minutes ago.

“Uh… babe?” Amin starts to panic. “What’s going on?”

More head shakes from the class.

Then—

CRACK.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder.

Mr. Rahim’s voice lowers, rough like gravel soaked in gasoline.

“Hmm… when were you two planning to sit down, hmm?”

Amin freezes. Mouth open. Eyes wide.

“Uhhhhh…”

Mr. Rahim leans in. A shadow darkens his face.

“No worries. I’ll make sure you get a full-body experience of my next pop quiz. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.”

The class collectively gulps.

Mariam is already sliding her chair half an inch away from Amin, casually sipping her drink like nothing’s happening.

“Babe!?” Amin’s voice cracks as Mr. Rahim slowly begins to escort him to his seat with the elegance of dragging a corpse.

Amin lets out a whimper.

And thus, a new day begins in 4-Buccaneers.

During class.

Mr. Rahim adjusts his crooked glasses, cracks his knuckles, and taps the whiteboard with a metal pointer like a war drum echoing through a battlefield.

“Alright, class! Let’s return to the civilized world, shall we? Today, we tackle the ever-relevant topic: Modern History and Human Slavery!”

The entire class collectively flinches. Some raise eyebrows. Others brace for one of those Mr. Rahim lectures—the kind that either ends in an existential crisis or a broken whiteboard.

I raise my hand, but before I can say anything, the desk next to me suddenly jolts.

“Sir!!” Amin leaps up like he’s just discovered a hidden treasure chest. “There's no more slavery now! Except maybe us students under you, oh great and awesome Pirate Captain Rahim!!” He says it with a mocking salute and a dramatic hand wave, drawing laughter from the back row.

The class erupts.

Mr. Rahim freezes.

His aura shifts.

Crimson lightning sparks behind him.

A dramatic gust of wind blasts in from nowhere.

Everyone goes quiet.

Mr. Rahim’s eyes twitch with anime rage lines.

He turns slowly, like a final boss about to unleash his special move.

“…It’s. MR. RAHIM!!! Not Captain! Not Pirate Overlord! Not Colonel Mustache! Just! MR!! RAHIM!!!”

His shout practically shakes the glass windows. Birds outside scatter like they know death has just spoken.

Amin gulps.

“Ehehe… y-yeah, sorry, sir.”

Mr. Rahim slams both hands on Amin’s desk, looming over him with that menacing grin. “Since you’re so excited to discuss the current state of human trafficking and exploitation, how about you give us the first ten minutes of today’s lecture, Mr. Historian Amin?”

Amin turns pale.

“U-Uhh…”

Mariam doesn’t even look up from her notebook. “That’s what you get for poking the Kraken, babe.”

I lean back in my seat, suppressing a grin. Typical chaos.

Mr. Rahim eventually turns to me with a dramatic flair of his pointer stick.

“Now then—Alex! Since your friend decided to warm up the class with comedy… why don’t you give us a serious breakdown. Tell us—how has slavery evolved from ancient history to the modern world?”

I take a breath, the class settling into a hush, all eyes on me.

This is where the mood always shifts.

Because Mr. Rahim’s class might start like a joke…

…but it always ends in something real.

I calmly stand in, all eyes on me as I exhale softly.

“Modern slavery encompasses various forms of exploitation that are illegal worldwide,” I begin, my tone calm but firm. “It includes forced labor, human trafficking, debt bondage, and even forced marriages. It’s not just about chains or plantations anymore—it’s about control. A system where individuals are manipulated, deceived, or coerced into giving up their freedom.”

The room grows quiet.

I can feel their attention sharpen.

“It’s a continuum of exploitation,” I continue, pacing slowly. “It doesn’t start with chains—it starts with lies. With poverty. With fear. People end up in abusive workplaces or trapped in contracts they can’t escape. And yes, while the transatlantic slave trade is a core part of history, modern slavery is still very real. It exists in developed and developing countries alike, affecting millions.”

A beat of silence follows.

Even Mr. Rahim pauses, clearly impressed.

He slams a marker onto the whiteboard with flair and scribbles a diagram with exaggerated circles and arrows. “YES!! Now look at this graph!!”

He’s drawn a flowchart: Poverty → Exploitation → Control → Loss of Freedom.

“THIS! This is the real chain! Not made of iron—but made of economics! manipulation! and unchecked power!”

He slams his hand on the board for emphasis.

Maya raises her hand hesitantly, pushing up her glasses. “Um… Mr. Rahim… doesn’t that mean most regular jobs are technically a form of modern slavery?”

The class chuckles nervously.

Mr. Rahim spins around like a dramatic stage actor. “Excellent question, Maya! Not all jobs, of course—but consider this: If someone is working under unfair conditions, underpaid, lied to, and cannot leave due to fear or threats, then yes! That’s exploitation.”

He waves his arms like he’s casting a spell. “Think of workers with no contracts. Migrant laborers trapped by false promises. Or companies who hide the truth—paying just enough to keep people desperate but not enough to let them escape.”

We all murmur, nodding while scribbling furiously.

Mariam leans over. “Kukuku… this feels more like a battle lecture than a history class.”

Amin mutters, “Bro, why do I feel like we’re about to get conscripted into a revolution…”

Mr. Rahim slams the marker down again. “This! This is why history matters! Because it’s still happening! Don’t be blind to the chains just because you can’t hear them rattle!”

He points at me. “And Alex—you delivered that like a veteran professor. Maybe I should retire and let you take over.”

“Uh… no thanks, sir.”

“Too bad! No take backs!”

The class laughs again, the mood lightening after the heavy topic.

But in my chest… I feel something tighten.

Because I know what real chains feel like.

I’ve worn them.

Not on my wrists—but on my soul.

And this… this is just the beginning.

Mr. Rahim leans forward on his desk, arms crossed, gaze sharp yet thoughtful.

“Now remember this,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Why do I want all of you to learn this? Why all the chaos, the yelling, the madness?”

The room holds its breath.

He slams a hand on the desk.

“Because I want to make sure every one of you grows into a proper human being!”

The classroom goes quiet.

And then… we all nod.

Despite all his wild antics, Mr. Rahim has moments like this—where his words strike deep. They’re not just about grades or memorizing dates. He’s trying to shape us into something better. Into people who understand the world and don’t repeat its worst mistakes.

I lean back in my chair. So this is what makes him different… Not just a teacher. A mentor.

Just as the moment settles into something meaningful…

A hand shoots up.

“Captain!!”

A groan echoes across the class. Oh no.

Mr. Rahim’s eyebrow twitches. “It’s Mr. Rahim…”

He sighs, as if carrying the weight of 300 years of pirate slander.

Amin grins wide. “Whatever, Captain! I have an idea.”

Everyone starts flailing their arms behind Amin. Shaking heads. Waving. Whispering. Abort, bro. Abort!

Too late.

“I think we need a practical activity to better understand the concepts,” Amin says proudly.

Mr. Rahim’s eyes glint dangerously. “A practical, you say?”

The entire classroom stiffens. Someone drops a pen. Another student quietly prays.

“Excellent idea…” Mr. Rahim pulls out a terrifyingly thick folder from his drawer. The label: Emergency Activities - Psychological Warfare Edition.

A collective gulp rolls through the room.

“Alright,” Mr. Rahim continues, voice now like a game show host with a vendetta. “Since our friend Amin has so graciously volunteered… why don’t he lead this demonstration on modern systemic oppression?”

Mariam turns to Amin slowly, whispering, “You’ve doomed us all.”

Amin, now sweating bullets, laughs nervously. “Wait… can we rewind a bit—”

“No take-backs!” Mr. Rahim shouts with a villainous grin.

The classroom erupts in half-panic, half-laughter. George is crawling under his desk. Maya’s already googling “how to escape class without dying.” Even Priscilla is cracking her knuckles like she’s ready for war.

I sigh.

This class is insane… but maybe, just maybe, that’s why I keep coming back.

Mr. Rahim spins toward the board with energy rivaling a shonen villain entering his final form.

The chalk screeches across the board.

Mr. Rahim draws a giant rectangle labeled “SOCIETY,” slaps it with red arrows, and writes “CORPORATE SLAVERY,” “INVISIBLE CHAINS,” and “ECONOMIC POWER STRUCTURE” in bold kanji-styled font. He turns around, eyes gleaming.

“Let the simulation… begin!”

Amin steps forward, hands behind his back like some cartoon villain in training. He clears his throat dramatically.

“Citizens of Rahim-topia!” he announces. “As Supreme Commander of this humble nation, I promise to lead us with fairness, justice, and free ice cream every Friday.”

Cheers erupt from the classroom.

“Down with capitalism!” George waves a ruler like a flag.

Priscilla rolls her eyes. "Righto, I'll take the reins on resources. Time to get my hands dirty.” She snatches the classroom marker stash.

Kylie, arms crossed, leans against the wall. “We’ll see how long this democracy lasts.”

Mr. Rahim grins devilishly. “Good. Let’s see how quickly power corrupts the innocent.”

Phase 1: Power Structure.

Amin assigns students fake roles — workers, landowners, media heads, enforcers.

“You’ll do manual labor,” he tells George.

“What the hell!? I was in the elite class last week!” George protests.

“Tough luck, proletariat,” Amin smirks.

Phase 2: Economic Simulation.

Monopoly money is distributed.

Within minutes, Priscilla’s already monopolized the canteen trade with her “Lunch Token Exchange.”

Maya prints fake cash from the art room’s copier.

Fiona leads a walkout demanding “nap breaks and human rights.”

Mr. Rahim watches, sipping his coffee like a Roman emperor at a gladiator pit.

“Fascinating. The social breakdown begins earlier than expected…”

Phase 3: Collapse.

Amin now wears a necktie as a cape and sunglasses as a crown.

“I hereby nationalize the blackboard! No one writes without my decree!”

“HE’S LOST IT!” Mariam yells from the back, forming a rebel faction of students armed with rulers and water bottles.

Jackie duct-tapes Amin’s desk and declares it “Fort Liberty.”

Rick, now wearing paper armor, runs through the hall screaming, “VIVA LA REVOLUTION!!”

And then… chaos.

Desks fly.

Textbooks become missiles.

A group of “peasants” chants “Down with Captain Amin!” while Amin waves his pencil-scepter.

“I REGRET NOTHING!!!”

And then—

WHAM!

The classroom goes silent.

All heads turn.

Mr. Rahim stands behind Amin, holding the sacred rolled-up attendance sheet like a baseball bat.

His glasses glint.

His voice is calm, but terrifying.

“Amin…”

The room holds its collective breath.

“You’ve led an uprising… disrupted the economy… betrayed my megaphone.”

Amin gulps. “C-Captain… I was just—”

“IT’S. MR. RAHIM!!”

BOOM!

The impact echoes like thunder.

Amin collapses in slow motion, dramatically clutching his chest.

Mariam screams, “BAAAABEEEEE!!!”

George: “He’s gone!!”

Fiona throws a white napkin. “It’s too late! Save yourselves!”

Mr. Rahim clears his throat, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.

“Let this be a lesson, class. Power must never be abused. The system always fights back.”

The students all nod solemnly. Even Priscilla salutes.

Amin groans from the floor, twitching. “Someone… avenge me…”

Mr. Rahim calmly returns to his desk, flips open his book, and says with a satisfied sigh—

“Now. Back to modern slavery and the economics of global labor.”

We all sit down in stunned silence.

Class with Mr. Rahim… is never boring.

While Mr. Rahim carries on with his thunderous lecture about modern slavery and Amin lies face-down on the floor—still twitching from his failed classroom coup—the chaos hasn’t gone unnoticed.

THUD!

A loud slap against the classroom window startles everyone.

Eyes swing toward the sound.

Outside, students from the other blocks are lining up, squishing against the glass like it’s some kind of zoo exhibit.

“Oi! Is that Amin?”
“Bro’s dead! Like, proper toast!”

“That’s gotta be 4-Buccaneer again... they’re always pulling this kinda stunt!”

Kylie sighs, lowering her book just enough to peer out the window. “Seriously… why are we always the circus tent of the school?”

Maya, our class monitor, mutters under her breath while scribbling notes. “It’s because we’ve got those three…”

Meanwhile, Priscilla leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching the outside commotion with a smirk.

“Blimey… we’ve got more eyes on us than a soap opera finale. Might as well start sellin’ tickets, eh?”

She shouts toward the window crowd.

“Oi! Get back to your own classes, ya lot of stickybeaks!”

One student actually flinches and scurries off. Another waves back like a fan meeting a celebrity.

“Look! It’s that Aussie girl who knocked out that dropout Windy!”

Priscilla grins. “Damn right it is.”

Amin groans from the floor, his face pressed against the cool tile. “I regret everything…”

Mariam steps over him casually, still sipping from her pink thermos. “Next time you wanna lead a classroom revolution, maybe don’t challenge a pirate captain with tenure.”

Mr. Rahim turns sharply at the word pirate.

His eyes narrow.

“IT’S. MR. RAHIM.”

The whole class snaps upright like trained soldiers.

I lean back slightly in my chair, I raised my hands in surrender. “Whoa, easy, sir… I’m just here for the history lesson.”

Rahim slams a diagram onto the whiteboard — arrows, graphs, scribbles, and the word ‘EXTRA HOMEWORK’ in large red letters.

“I swear, I turn my back for one minute and this class turns into Treasure Island. Enough of the dramatics!”

The class chuckles nervously, returning to their notes.

Outside, the hallway finally clears as the spectators lose interest and vanish.

Mariam glances sideways at me, I’m now scribbling casually in my notebook as if none of this just happened. She exhales, brushing her bangs aside with a sigh.

“Another normal day in 4-Buccaneer, huh?”

Priscilla adds with a chuckle, “Bet the newbies from Patriot class are cackin' their pants.”

After Class — Evening Approaches

School's finally over.

Just as I’m about to slump into quiet mode, Mariam’s voice hits me like a megaphone.

“Oi! Gloomy bro!! Don’t think you’re walking off that easily!”

Yep. That's my cue.

“…Yeah, yeah. What now?”

She winks and spins around dramatically, her ponytail catching sunlight. “Don’t you forget, mister. IGNITE Festival. Tonight. You’re on stage, remember? The anthem, the spotlight—your glorious debut as a human again!”

“…Thanks for that emotional summary,” I mutter.

Amin appears right on time, his energy on overdrive. “I can’t wait to see this, bro! You’re going to mess up in front of the whole school, right?!”

“That's not how support works—”

George joins in, nervously scratching his head. “Guys… how are we gonna explain this to the juniors? About the whole ‘orientation’ turning into… whatever that was?”

Mariam just grins devilishly, snapping her fingers. “Easy. We rebrand it. Make it flashy. Drama! Suspense! Tears! We'll give them a story worth remembering.”

Of course.

Since the festival’s kicking off later in the evening, most of us decide to stay back and prep.

I spot Hana and Steward near the front gates.

“Hey, you two heading home?”

Hana nods, her smile radiant. “We’ll wait for Mom. Good luck tonight, big brother!”

“Break a leg, big bro,” Steward says, already buried in his book.

Then comes Maya, bouncing beside them like an energy drink in human form. “Can’t wait for the show! I’m gonna scream like a fangirl!!”

Great.

Sylvia sneaks up behind me, tapping my back softly.

“Hey, darling~” she hums with her usual graceful smile.

…She’s smiling again. Calm. Composed. Like the storm never happened.

But before I can even ask, Priscilla wraps an arm around me from the other side, grinning.

“So, babe… gonna dedicate tonight’s song to me or what?”

Sylvia’s smile twitches.

“Hmph.”

Their eyes lock—icy elegance vs Aussie firecracker—but then… they both giggle?

That… was unexpected.

Mariam claps her hands, clearly entertained. “Kukuku… now this is going to be fun.”

Then, Shinji runs over like an excited puppy.

“Sempai!!” he bows, still brimming with energy.

I hesitate. My chest tightens a little.

But I place a hand on his head, trying to act casual. “Keep it up. Don’t slack off.”

My hand awkwardly dodges his hair like I’m scared it’ll bite.

Behind me, Mariam jumps and kicks me in the back. “THAT’S MY BRO!!!”

Amin slams his elbow into my shoulder. “YO!!! YOU’RE BACK, BABY!!!”

I’m shaking.

“Enough…”

My patience snaps—I grab them both into a deadly headlock.

Mariam, the ninja she is, escapes instantly. Amin? Not so lucky.

“Give!! Give!!! GIIIIIVE!!!!” he gasps as I unleash a camel clutch worthy of wrestling legend.

Shinji salutes me with sparkling eyes. “Sempai! Can’t wait to help at the event! Mariam-sempai said I could!”

Mariam smirks, arms folded. “You’ll be leading Year 1 tonight.”

Sylvia raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

Priscilla crosses her arms. “He’s still pretty new. Not sure the juniors will buy it.”

Mariam doesn’t budge. “Shinji.”

Shinji freezes, gulping. “…I… I can’t!”

He bows again. “I’m sorry! I’m not ready! I’ll mess it up!”

Amin slaps his shoulder. “C’mon kid! This is your moment! Destiny calls!!”

I ruffle his hair, sighing. “So? You gonna stand up, or keep running?”

Shinji looks at me—his eyes wide, bright, and annoyingly puppy-like.

Ugh.

I flick his forehead. “You better shine tonight, junior.”

He beams. “YES, SEMPAI!!! I’ll do my best!!!”

Mariam gives him a nod of approval. “Good. Then don’t mess it up, or it’s toilet duty for a week.”

He pales.

The sun begins to set, casting golden light over the school. The courtyard starts to buzz with students setting up the stage, hanging lanterns, running extension cords, and rehearsing skits.

IGNITE Festival… the one event where everyone shines.

And maybe…

Just maybe…

Tonight, we can leave behind the chaos.

Even if only for a while.