Chapter 32: IGNITE!!!! IGNITE!!!! IGNITE!!!!!!!!

Evening. Still at school.

The golden hour sunlight filters through the courtyard windows, casting long shadows across the school grounds. The once-loud chatter of students slowly fades as the real magic hour approaches—tonight’s IGNITE Festival.

Sylvia, Steward, Hana, Maya, Tama, and Siti had already gone home to change. The dress code? I don’t even know what to expect.

While I’m still standing by the corridor, Mariam slides beside me with that grin of hers and flashes a flyer in my face.

‘Dress code: Traditional, Ethnic, Formal, or Smart Casual.’

...Seems normal. Too normal, in fact.

“This is it,” Mariam says, eyes gleaming. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

Amin leans casually beside her, arms folded behind his head. “Hard to believe, huh? This whole thing... started only last year.”

He’s right.

Last year, everything was different. The chaos, the clash between elites and commoners, the secret missions, the betrayals... the scars. Now? We’re organizing school festivals. Singing anthems. Laughing together.

It almost feels unreal.

Suddenly—

“Sempai!!”

Here we go again.

Shinji, now in full-on nervous puppy mode, dashes up to us and salutes like he’s in a military parade.

Mariam immediately clocks him on the head with her clipboard.

“Dumbass Shinji! What did I tell you!? Did you even rehearse the lines I gave you!?”

“I did, sempai!! I swear I did!!” he pleads with his hands raised like a surrendering hostage.

He looks like he’s about to cry.

I sigh, step forward, and place a hand on his shoulder.

“Relax. Just keep doing what you’re doing, alright?”

His eyes light up like I just handed him a gold medal.

“Thank you, sempai!!” he shouts, bowing deeply.

Mariam smacks him again.

“Then what the hell are you standing around for!? Go get changed! You’re the face of the first years, remember!?”

“Haiiii!!!” He bolts off like a launched missile.

I chuckle under my breath.

This guy’s still got a long way to go… but at least he’s not the same Shinji from back then. Not anymore.

Amin turns toward me with a sly grin. “You sure you’re ready for tonight, bro?”

I glance up at the sky, watching the clouds drift over the campus dome, tinged orange by the setting sun.

“Not really. But ready or not... here it comes.”

Behind us, Mariam is already scribbling on her clipboard again, muttering something about fire lanterns and last-minute rehearsal changes.

The countdown to the festival has begun.

And deep down—I have a feeling this night’s going to change everything.

The scent of polished wood and fresh whiteboard ink hangs in the air. Late afternoon sun spills through the blinds, casting golden lines across the long table where all of us are seated.

The Student Council office has never felt this tense. Or this packed.

I sit at the far side, arms crossed, pretending I’m half-asleep—like I’m not already sizing up the whole room for potential threats. The security detail, they called it. What they really mean is “if anything explodes, it’s your job to clean it up.”

Melissa clears her throat from the head of the table.

“Looks like everyone’s here.”

Right. Roll call, huh?

- Me — the guy stuck with security.
- Amin — secretary of the council, also Mariam’s other half-in-crime.
- Hazlan — tech genius, sitting quietly with his tablet already compiling data.
- Priscilla — disciplinary head. Stylish. Intimidating. Dangerous.
- Mariam — vice president. Ambitious. Always plotting something.
- Mathew — cool-headed senior from 5-Patriot. The last samurai, I swear.
- Kylie — rep from 4-Buccaneers. Always smiling, but always watching. She finally got what she wants.
- Sadie — our 3-Unicorn rep. outgoing cheerleader. Pretty sure she will captivate everyone. Good luck Devinson
- Lukman — from 2-Catsy. Energetic little dude, scribbling in his notebook.
- Shinji — Form 1 rep. Trying his best. Still shakes when Mariam looks at him.
- Melissa — our fearless student council president. Calm, elegant… merciless.
- Mr. Rahman — our principal. Stoic. Probably knows my entire past.
- Lord Newman — chairman of the Parent-Teacher Association. Priscilla’s dad. Imagine a refined lion with a monocle and you’d be close.

Melissa begins, her voice clear, firm, and full of that annoying calm you only get from someone who already has everything under control.

“Let’s begin. This is the first major event of the year since the founding of the new student council. Please give your attention to Mariam.”

She gestures like a true queen, passing the floor.

Mariam, as always, leans forward like she’s presenting an idea that could change the world. Or destroy it.

“Well—first, tonight’s IGNITE Festival will include the official farewell ceremony for our Form 5 seniors, who graduated last month. It’ll be our send-off.”

A beat.

“Second, we’ll use this to introduce the newly formed student council to all stakeholders: students, staff, and guests.”

Mr. Rahman nods slowly. “A good start. Let’s just hope it stays… orderly.”

Mariam smiles sweetly. “Leave it to our security detail.”

Everyone turns to me.

...Don’t tell me.

A dozen expectant eyes stare right into my soul. Even Hazlan pauses his typing.

I blink.

“Wait, you’re all serious?”

Melissa flashes that sharp, dangerous smile of hers.

“Good luck, Alex. Just make sure everything runs smoothly, okay?”

And like that, I’m volunteered into being school-wide crisis control.

Lord Newman leans forward, his voice as smooth as ever.

“Let us ensure this festival becomes a memory to mark the beginning of a new legacy. One forged in unity... and excellence.”

Everyone in the room nods in perfect sync, like a well-choreographed cult of overly optimistic council members.

Me?

I just sit back in my chair, arms crossed, staring blankly at the ceiling, mentally planning where I could place metaphorical landmines around the buffet table.

The drinks station? Too obvious. Dessert corner? Perfect. One wrong move and it’s napalm pudding for everyone.

They want me to handle security? Fine. Let them have their show. I’ll handle the shadows.

While the others chatter on with dazzling smiles and clipboards, I quietly scan the meeting room, already assigning patrol points and possible blind spots. You know—just in case someone decides to recreate the Battle of Midway during karaoke.

Mariam, of course, has something else to throw into the fire.

She leans forward, resting her elbow on the desk with that smug grin of hers.

“Well, since our adorable junior here has been sooo helpful and sweet~” —she says, patting Shinji's head like he’s a lost kitten— “I should mention he’s done us a big favour.”

Shinji flinches.

“He's helped round up most of the troublemakers we’ve been trying to keep an eye on. Some of them even volunteered.”

Priscilla nods in silent approval, her arms folded, her stare capable of melting steel.

I glance sideways at Shinji. The poor guy's face is pale, his legs shaking slightly.

“Oi,” I mutter to him. “You alright?”

He jerks upright like I just pressed a detonator.

“H-Hai, sempai!! I’m fine!!”

Yeah. Totally believable.

Then the door slams open like thunder—and in strolls Mr. Rahim, his presence a mix between a war general and a slightly drunk pirate.

His coat’s flapping, one eyebrow raised, and that terrifying gleam in his eyes spells chaos incoming.

“Oi! You lot better not be turning this into a damn circus! I want order, not another damn kitchen brawl!” he barks, glaring right at me as if I singlehandedly summoned the last school riot. (Okay… maybe I did. Once.)

Everyone goes stiff like we’ve just been caught smuggling explosives.

Mariam smiles sheepishly. “Everything’s under control, sir. Just assigning roles.”

Mr. Rahim squints at me.

I return the gaze.

He nods once.

I nod back.

Warrior’s pact confirmed.

“Good. I’ve got a speech to polish. And don’t let me catch anyone messing around backstage—especially you lot.” He gestures vaguely to the entire student council before disappearing back through the door like a storm dissipating into the distance.

The room collectively exhales.

Melissa clears her throat with a diplomatic smile. “Well then… let’s continue.”

Me?

I’m still stuck on the thought that Shinji may have actually recruited the school’s most problematic rebels into becoming volunteer ushers. That’s like hiring wolves to guard the meat truck.

This festival is going to be interesting.

Night falls.
The sky’s an endless blanket of deep sapphire, freckled with the first stars of the evening. A calm breeze dances across the school courtyard as the hum of excitement brews quietly beneath the air.

7:00 PM.

We're still in our uniforms—formal but unassuming.
The guys wear beige shirts neatly tucked into khaki slacks, a faint echo of order in this ever-chaotic school.
The girls? White blouses paired with flowing beige skirts, some wearing their matching hijabs with graceful ease.

And me?
I’m the one juggling blueprints and battle plans like I’m preparing for a UN-level summit instead of a school event.

Mariam and Amin are already locked in a heated—yet disturbingly synchronized—debate over the evening’s stage lineup.

“Hey babe,” Mariam calls out, flicking through her clipboard. “We need to rehearse that traditional dance again. It needs to match your live music set perfectly, got it?”

Amin’s already tapping on his drum pad. “Sure thing, babe! But remind me again—are we doing the Bajau style or going full zapin with this?”

Mariam smirks like she’s already ten steps ahead.
“Sabahan traditional dance. And mix in some Malay joget while you're at it. Keep the crowd entertained.”

“Copy that, babe,” Amin says, giving her a wink before turning to his setup.

Meanwhile, I roll out the floorplan of the entire school compound across the table, the corners flapping slightly under the wind.

“Here,” I tell them, pointing at the main zones. “Here’s the seating layout. These are the emergency exits. This alley here—blind spot. Hazlan’s setting up surveillance there. The volunteers’ post is here, near the field entrance. We’re covering all angles.”

Mariam whistles. “Dang, you’re more prepared than the Ministry of Defence.”

I shrug. “Credit to Hazlan. He’s the IT genius,”

That’s when Priscilla struts over, full-on in her school uniform but somehow making it look like a designer outfit. The wind flutters her pleated skirt slightly, and her hair’s tied up in a neat ponytail—elegant, sharp, commanding.

“Oi, babe,” she says with that Aussie twang and a grin, “you’re a freakin’ legend. These maps will make assigning volunteers a bloody breeze.”

She pats my shoulder. I nod quietly, letting the moment settle in.

There’s a strange feeling in my chest.
Excitement? Nervousness? Maybe a bit of both.

Because tonight isn't just about dance performances or food booths.
It’s more than that.

This is the IGNITE Festival—
The first real celebration under the newly-formed Student Council.

A night that would mark a change.
A night where elite and commoner, prefect and delinquent, local and foreigner... all stand on the same stage.

For once, no divide.
Just voices, lights, rhythm—and something that could actually be called unity.

I take a deep breath, staring at the gymnasium where the spotlights are already flickering on.

This school has seen chaos, betrayal, pain…
But maybe—just maybe—tonight could be a new beginning.

As the lights of the IGNITE Festival continue to shimmer across the school grounds, I hear the steady rhythm of heels approaching behind me.

“Alex,” a firm voice calls.
I turn slightly—
It’s Melissa, the ever-composed president of the student council, clipboard in one hand, a Bluetooth earpiece blinking at her temple like she’s coordinating a full-on UN peacekeeping mission.

Her expression? Cool. Calculating. And mildly concerned.

“What about the handling of security?” she asks, skipping the pleasantries.

“Handled,” I reply with a small nod. “I've already coordinated with both the school’s actual security detail and a group of student volunteers who offered to pitch in. They're stationed at every key point—gates, booth areas, backstage, fire exits. We even placed Hazlan’s drone units on standby, just in case.”

Melissa lifts an eyebrow, impressed.
“I’m starting to think we recruited a covert ops commander instead of a school rep.”

I chuckle lightly, adjusting the map tucked under my arm.
“If you saw what my weekends used to look like, you wouldn’t be far off.”

“Good,” she says, her tone softening ever so slightly. “This is the first time the school board, PTA, and the entire administrative committee are attending together. That means not only the principal and teachers... but the directors, the alumni donors, the external auditors… all of them.”

She exhales slowly.

“One mistake—and it’ll haunt our council for years.”

I nod, the weight of it all settling on my shoulders.
“No pressure then.”

Melissa allows herself a faint smile, then turns and walks beside me. The sounds of setup echo around us—students calling out booth orders, the distant thump of a speaker test, the flutter of banners in the wind.

As we walk toward the stage zone, she adds:

“Still, I trust you’ll manage.”

That surprises me.

“Me?”

“You’re calm when you need to be,” she says simply. “Reliable. Smart. And no offense… slightly terrifying when provoked.”

I blink. “...Thanks?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she shoots back, but there’s a small grin tugging at her lips.

I glance up at the fading light over the school roof.
This festival… it’s more than just a party.
It’s a symbol of unity. Of change.

And for me?
It’s another day making sure no one bleeds. Or explodes anything. Or dies from cotton candy sabotage.

As Melissa moves ahead, I tighten the strap on my watch and glance at my comms device.

Time to make sure everything is airtight.

30 Minutes Before the Event

The air is different. Not heavy, not calm—just charged. Like the sky itself is holding its breath, waiting for the curtain to rise.

The clock hits 6:30 PM.

Lights are being tested, final cables pulled, tension barely hidden behind everyone’s smiles.

Somewhere behind the stage, Mariam is already in “artist mode.” That terrifying state of existence where she’s half-dancer, half-general, and 100% chaos.

She storms past the sound team and shouts toward me from across the hallway, her voice amplified even without a mic.

“BRO!! Your costume for the anthem performance is in the backstage room—got that?! As soon as your security checklist is done, teleport yourself back there! WE'RE OPENING, REMEMBER?!”

“Yeah, yeah! I heard you the first five times!!” I shout back, waving dismissively while dodging a roll of gaffer tape that nearly clocks me in the head.

Amin’s already trailing behind her, piano sheet in hand, multitasking like a machine. The two of them make the perfect chaos duo—artist and composer in synchronized insanity.

“Yo bro! You better hurry or Mariam’s gonna choreograph your funeral too!” he jokes.

Across the school compound near the front garden, I spot Shinji standing on a plastic stool, nervously rehearsing his speech. He’s surrounded by a full-on squad of first-years, most of them giving him side-eyes of doom.

“Shinji!! You’re overacting!! We’re trying to look like student reps, not motivational cult leaders!!” a girl barks, arms crossed.

Another first-year flicks his script. “Dude, trim this part—sounds like you're declaring war on vegetables.”

Shinji lowers his head in shame, bowing like he’s auditioning for a samurai drama.

“GOT IT!! Thank you so much for helping!!”

His classmates all facepalm in unison.

“Stop bowing!! You’re not our servant!”
“Bro, if you dogeza again, I swear, second-years are gonna start asking for tribute!”

He’s flustered but focused—maybe that’s the real Shinji finally coming out.

I walk past them, shaking my head with a grin, and head toward the field gate where security is stationed. There, under a halogen lamp flickering slightly in the evening breeze, Mr. Marcus greets me with his clipboard like he’s been waiting for me to report to base.

“Alex,” he says, calm but firm. “We’ve finalized the patrol routes. For tonight, one controlled entrance and one exit. The rest of the campus will be cordoned off. Too dangerous for students to wander.”

“Understood,” I nod, scanning the map pinned to the gate post.

I can hear the faint bass line from soundcheck rumbling through the air, the scent of food stalls drifting from the parking lot, chatter of volunteers echoing from the multipurpose hall.

It’s surreal. Like we’re standing in the middle of a movie set just minutes before action is called.

And me? I’m stuck between guard dog duty and stage performer.
...Why the hell did I agree to this again?

“You’re the face of the new student council.”
“You’re the one who united both sides.”
“We believe in you, Alex.”

That’s what they all say. What they expect.

But right now, I’m just a guy trying to hold all this together with duct tape and caffeine.

Still, I can’t help but smile.

Because despite everything—
The fights.
The conspiracies.
The pain.
This? This is our school now. And tonight… we show the world what that really means.

The sun dips behind the rooftops. The orange sky fades into deep indigo, and floodlights flicker to life one by one across the school compound. The IGNITE Festival… is about to begin.

And what did I expect as part of my security team plan?

Simple duties. Maybe organizing traffic flow, monitoring the crowd, keeping people from sneaking behind the food booths. You know… normal stuff.

That illusion is shattered the moment Ms. Genevie marches toward us—dragging what I swear is a body bag-sized metal trunk behind her like some secret ops agent in an action movie.

Clunk.
Thud.

She slams it down in front of the volunteers and gives us her signature mischievous smirk.

“Alright boys and girls, suit up.”

...Huh?

Mr. Marcus chuckles as he opens the case. What’s inside makes everyone stop breathing.

“What the hell—!?” Mat, the form 4 boys’ hostel leader, recoils in disbelief.

“Sir, are we security or auditioning for a Mission Impossible sequel?” Basir adds, stepping back.

Lined neatly inside the case… are pitch-black custom security suits, full tactical-grade attire complete with radio earpieces, armbands, and visored shades.

I blink once.
Then twice.

“Bro…” Mat whispers, eyes wide, turning to me. “Is this—”
“Secret Service cosplay night!?” Basir finishes.

Mr. Marcus grins, arms crossed. “What you’re seeing is the upgraded look for this school’s new standard of discipline. Remember what I told you, Alex—first impressions matter. Let’s give the school board something they’ll never forget.”

Well damn.

One by one, we get changed. The suits are high-quality—black with silver stitching and clean cuts. I can’t lie, I feel like I’m in some James Bond or something.

I slip the earpiece into my ear, click the radio into my belt, and straighten the blazer. A glance in the mirror confirms it—

I look like I’m about to bodyguard a prime minister or assassinate one. Not sure which yet.

Volunteers from Form 3 and Form 5 are whispering among themselves, half-excited, half-nervous. One guy even hums the Men in Black theme as he buttons his collar.

“This is overkill” I mutter. “But… weirdly awesome.”

As the school bell chimes seven sharp, Mariam’s voice comes through the main PA.

“IGNITE Festival crew, final check! Performers, standby! Security, take position!”

I nod to Mr. Marcus, then activate the earpiece.

“All units, this is Alex. Eyes open. If anything looks shady—report, don’t engage. We’re not chasing cats in dark alleys tonight.”

“Roger that, Eagle One,” Mat replies like he’s done this in real life.

“Dude stop calling him that,” Basir groans in the background.

I walk toward the main plaza, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the pavement. Students are starting to gather. Teachers in formal attire mill about, parents snapping photos. The aroma of food, the sparkle of dresses and baju melayu, and the chatter of excited voices blend into one surreal blur.

This is it.

Our school’s first-ever full-scale festival since the merger. A symbol of unity, diversity, and progress.

But in the corner of my mind…
I still keep one hand near the mic.
Because peace?

7:30 PM sharp.

The school gates are open, and the game has begun.

I’m stationed just inside the perimeter with Basir, keeping watch over the pathways leading to the Grand Hall. Mat’s holding the line up front with the junior team—first years in their crisp uniforms, standing like proud little guards.

From my earpiece:

“All stations, this is Alex. Final check. Mat?”
“Form One and Two, ready. We’ve got them lined up by groups.”
“Basir?”
“With you, boss. Hall route secured.”
“Good. Keep it tight. No slacking.”

And then…

Like a movie scene, the staff arrives.

Mr. Marcus steps forward in his full suit—dark, sleek, formal. He’s ex-military through and through. Broad shoulders, a no-nonsense face. If he says “secure the perimeter,” people move. Period.

Then, just behind him…
The showstopper walks in.

Ms. Genevie, draped in an elegant kebaya nyonya—floral silk, fitted silhouette, jade brooch at her collarbone. Her hair’s in a loose bun, and every step she takes radiates a kind of quiet pride. The traditional charm clashes and somehow blends perfectly with the modern setup.

She grins at our stunned faces.

“My mother’s a nyonya, okay? I’ve got style in my blood.”

Basir practically stumbles into me.

“Bro… she’s glowing.”

Even Mr. Marcus, the stoic war-hardened knight, has gone stiff. The poor guy’s face twitches like a nutcracker trying to process conflicting emotions.

High elegance threat.

The guests start pouring in. Parents, siblings, local dignitaries. Girls in traditional Malay attire, boys in sharp suits or baju melayu. Flash photography is going off like crazy. Teachers guide guests, students perform usher duties. Everything’s alive.

Then we hear it:

“Is this really… a school?” one of the parents says, staring up at the archway.

“Yes, mom. I go here,” their son mutters, face in palm. I feel that on a spiritual level.

I lean into Basir.

“This whole setup… It’s overkill.”

“You think? Bro, we’re dressed like secret agents. If one of us draws a guns, I swear this becomes like the movie air force one!!.”

He’s not wrong.

I glance toward the gate. Mr. Marcus stands firm like a mountain, while Ms. Genevie beside him moves like the breeze. They’re the perfect contrast—warrior and diplomat.

Then…

“Well, at least it’s not the Captain, right?” Basir mutters, shaking his head.

I cough—just once, warningly.

“Huh?” he asks.

I point—behind him.

There, standing just next to Mr. Marcus like a storm waiting to break loose, is none other than Mr. Rahim. Hands behind his back. Eyes scanning like a hawk about to launch a cannon barrage. The man looks like a pirate admiral crashing a royal banquet.

Mr. Marcus has one hand on his shoulder—subtly holding him in place.

“Ya Allah,” Basir whispers. “He’s on a leash, bro…”

I nod solemnly.

“Let’s just pray he doesn’t break free during the speeches.”

So far, everything’s calm. The parents are impressed. The guests are smiling. The vibe is perfect.

But I know better.

Peace is just the setup.

And tonight?

Anything can happen.

I wait behind the barricade, earpiece in, listening to the radio chatter. All-clear signals keep buzzing in, but one voice cuts through the channel like a bullet of chaos.

“Bro… that looked hot…”

Someone from the junior security team. Sounds like Mat.

Then another voice cracks through from Genevie’s frequency:

“Oh my, you look stunning, dear! And the little ones too—how precious!”

Mat again, now borderline hyperventilating.

“Eagle One to base… that’s a ten out of ten—wait, no—eleven!! Another one just walked in! ARE YOU SEEING THIS!?”

I glance sideways. Basir’s face is redder than a lobster under a spotlight.

“That lucky bastard…” he mutters, biting his lip, sweat forming above his brow.

I sigh, half-expecting it to be another false alarm. “Chill, bro. He's probably just overreacting again.”

But then…

I see them.

My family.

Walking through the main entrance like it’s a scene from a royal parade. Mom and Dad, standing proud. Uncle Usman and Aunt Salina trailing behind them. Mr. Habeeb arrives too—my old Qur’an teacher, still stern-eyed but softer now—with his son, Haqib, in full Navy uniform. The man walks like he owns the sea. I instinctively stand straighter.

And right behind them—

Siti.

Wearing a shimmering kebaya that hugs her curves like it was tailored by fate itself. Her walk has every guy in a ten-meter radius turning to stone. A walking danger zone.

Basir’s jaw literally drops.

“You’ve got to be kidding me… Is that—Siti?”

I replied to him although I’m worried. “Yeah, try not to pass out, Romeo.”

Mat bolts forward like a soldier on autopilot.

“Excuse me, ma’am! Allow me to guide you to the grand hall!”

Basir isn’t far behind, suddenly all chivalry and polished smiles. They’re practically dueling for escort rights. I cover my face, already preparing myself mentally for Siti’s usual antics.

Please, please… don’t do that again…

Flashback: That assembly where she stood up, pointed at me, and shouted “"I know you're here, darling!!!" like it was a drama finale.

Yeah. Never again.

Then—

“HANA!!”

A blur slams into me. My little sister wraps around my waist like a missile.

“Big brother!!!” she beams.

I ruffle her hair. My suit's creased now, but whatever.

“Go have fun, squirt. But don’t start any fights, got it?”

“Okay!” she salutes like a gremlin soldier and skips away with Maya. Both of them in matching skirts and glittery jackets, the kind of fashion that screams "we’re here to rule the runway."

Even Steward cleans up nicely in a slick tux. Dude looks like he’s about to debut as a K-pop soloist.

But all of that—fades—when I hear it.

“Hey… darling.”

Her voice.

My pulse skips.

I turn.

And there she is.

Sylvia.

Draped in a flowing, icy-blue gown that shimmers like moonlight over the ocean. The fabric clings delicately to her figure, highlighting every elegant curve. Her usual bob cut is neatly pinned back, revealing her neck and shoulders—regal, seductive, absolutely stunning.

For a moment, I genuinely forget how to breathe.

She steps forward slowly, each stride a silent statement, like a queen gracing the world with her presence.

I try to say something. Anything.

Nothing comes out.

She smirks, eyes sparkling.

“Cat got your tongue, darling?”

I cough, scratch the back of my neck.

“You… clean up well.”

She winks.

“I could say the same. Yakuza prince in uniform, huh?”

I exhale. Calm down, Alex. You’ve fought gangsters. You’ve faced death. You’ve stared into chaos. You can handle—

Mom gives me that wink. The kind that says “I told you so” and “I’m not done scheming.”

“See what I told you, son…”

What are you plotting, woman!?

Dad, standing proudly next to her, throws me a cheesy thumbs-up like a proud senpai in a sports anime.

“Son.”

...No comment.

Then Baby Sam—perched like a VIP in Aunt Salina’s arms—raises one tiny fist and lets out a mighty war cry:

“Kuu!”

He’s in on it too!?

Before I can retaliate with embarrassment, Sylvia glides forward with all the poise of an empress attending a royal gala.

“Mother, let me help Alex… You go on ahead.”

She turns to Hana with a gentle command.

“Hana, help Mother. Got it?”

Hana throws up a perfect salute, eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Got it, Big Sis Sylvia. But just so you know…”

She pulls the classic ‘I’m watching you’ gesture—two fingers to her eyes, then pointing at Sylvia. Deadly serious.

Sylvia just smirks and winks like a seasoned rival in a shojo manga.

Then she links her arm through mine.

That’s it. My soul just ascended.

Her dress hugs her body perfectly, the pale blue silk catching the light like moonlight on water. Her bob-cut hair is pinned in a sleek, elegant twist. She smells like orchids and danger.

I am in hell. A beautiful, elegant hell.

And just like that, the real chaos begins—

Behind me, I hear the boys in the security squad losing it.

“That lucky bastard…” mutters Jingo from Form 4, his face pale with betrayal.

Yandi, trying to calm him down, offers reason.

“Bro… that’s his girl, you know.”

But the other boys are already in full meltdown.

“HE’S LEAVING US!!”
“How can he do this to us!?”

I turn around to try and fix it—only to get cut off by Sylvia’s voice, sharp and commanding.

“GET BACK TO IT!! YOU’RE NOT A BUNCH OF WUSSIES!!”

Silence. Wide-eyed stares.

Then—like magic—they all snap to attention.

“YES MA’AM!!!”

Morale fully restored.

Even Jingo salutes with tears in his eyes.

“She's scary... but I like her…”

And then there's the other commotion.

Jingo’s jaw drops again as he watches Mat and Basir, their senior hostel leaders, casually escorting Siti in her traditional kebaya down the carpeted path to the grand hall—cool, calm, and collected.

“Those cold-blooded bastards…” Jingo mutters.
“We’re out here dying and they’re walking with Siti like it’s a prom date!?”

Yeah. I get that.

I know that feel, bro.

Sylvia clutches my arm a little tighter, leaning in, whispering just loud enough for my ears alone.

“Ignore them, darling. You’ve got more important things to focus on.”

I swallow hard.

Focus, huh? Easier said than done when you’re literally glowing beside me like a final boss’s wife.

My brain’s melting, and the IGNITE Festival hasn’t even started yet.

The crowd's buzzing, the music is humming faintly through the school’s grand PA system, and I’m just trying to do my job.

Then…

“Good job… cousin. You look stunning.”

I turn to see Melissa—the Student Council President herself—gracefully entering with William and her kid in tow, her presence as composed as ever, like some kind of perfectly-tuned noblewoman.

Before I can thank her, Sylvia bows politely beside me, wearing that innocent smile that screams “danger imminent.”

“Well, gotta make sure he’s not doing any side jobs that you’re trying to pull.”

HUH!? That's our Student Council President you're casually accusing of black ops recruitment! Right in front of her kid too!?

Melissa doesn’t even blink. She just smiles that usual calm, elegant smile of hers.

“I see. Well… help him then.”

Like it’s no big deal!

Meanwhile, Sylvia’s glued to my side like industrial epoxy, clinging to my arm in a possessive way that makes my skin sweat and my brain melt.

“U-Um… It’s okay. You can go on ahead to the party, or you’ll miss the fun—”

🥰 “Not a chance, darling.”

I freeze.

Then she pulls out a voice recorder.

No.

Not again.

She presses play.

“Mother approve. Make sure Alex is with you at all times. Since Nat isn’t around, I need you to be there. Dad also agrees with this.”

Wait—what!?

“Since WHEN am I on a leash!?”

She pulls up another voice memo.

“Okay Syl, I’ll let this slide. Make sure Alex ain't stuck with anyone. Got it? Gotta cut off the competitors.”
— Natalie’s voice.

NATALIE!? WHAT THE HELL!?

Sylvia flashes a satisfied grin.

“Told you… I’m not going anywhere.”

Behind me, the boys in the security team react like they just got front-row seats to a soap opera from hell.

“KUU—!!! F*** MAN!!!”

Jingo’s face is red, his eyes watering. I’m honestly worried about his mental health.

Mat and Basir return, still suited up from their escort duty. They wave as they approach.

“All good! This job’s almost done! Switching to support positions!”

The crowd is now filled with familiar faces. Devinsen and Sadie pass by—both dressed to kill—followed by half the basketball team. Sylvia’s grip tightens around my arm every time one of them so much as looks at me.

Then—

BAM!

The cheer squad appears, who’s in full energetic mode.

It’s effective—morale shoots up like fireworks.

Too effective.

Because now the boys are glaring at each other like it’s mating season in a wildlife documentary.

“Uh-oh…” I mutter.

Then, one of the Form 1 girls approaches me with stars in her eyes.

“Wow! You look so cool, senior!”

I flinch. Sylvia doesn't.

She’s already between me and the poor girl, blocking like a pro defender.

😊 “Aww~ You must be one of the Form 1s. So cute. Now go along, okay?”

The girl scurries away before I can blink.

Then Sylvia pinches me—hard.

“Ow!! What was that for!?”

Before I can recover, Mr. Marcus and Ms. Genevie appear, both looking relieved.

“I think that’s the last batch,” Mr. Marcus announces.
“Let the staff take it from here. Our job as ushers is complete.”

The security boys cheer like they’ve just been liberated from prison. Jingo, Yandi, the rest—they sprint off to the hall like they’re being chased by their own hormones. Only Mat and Basir linger, eyeing each other like rivals.

Sylvia grabs my arm again.

“Come on, darling~”

Just as I move forward—

Priscilla appears.

But this isn’t security-duty Priscilla.
This is heart-attack-in-a-red-dress Priscilla, heels clicking like a threat with every step. Her lips curve into a smirk as she approaches.

"Hey Sil, didn't know you'd swapped guard duty for a gossip session!"

“Hey, Pris. You’re late. Letting your eyeliner dry or planning something, maybe?”

"Time to rattle some cages, Sil! I'm taking the helm and seeing what kind of trouble I can get into with him."

WHAT AM I!? A FREAKING RAFFLE PRIZE!?

Sylvia tightens her grip on my left arm. Priscilla grabs my right.

“O-oi!!”

I’m stuck. Literally being pulled like a rope in a tug-of-war.

Please… someone… call a teacher… a priest… an exorcist… anybody…

I really, really hope this doesn’t end up on the front page of the school bulletin.

Click!

“Done! Complimentary from the News Club!”

And just like that… it’s too late.

I twitch slightly as the camera girl cheerfully lowers her DSLR like she’s just secured this week’s front cover.

Sylvia casually steps forward, her heels clicking against the tiles like a final boss entering the room.

“Hey, could you take another photo?”

The camera girl tilts her head. “Sure!”

Sylvia turns slightly—her gaze fixed on someone beside me.

“Go on ahead, Pris. You start.”

Huh?

Wait, wait, wait—what do you mean “start”!?

Priscilla flashes a cheeky grin. Her eyes sparkle with pure mischief, and her voice is way too cheerful to be safe.

“Good on ya, Sil! That’s the spirit! You’re a ripper!”

What are they planning?!

We line up, the camera girl giving us a thumbs-up.

“Alright! You two are about the same height. Just turn in a little. Say cheese—!”

Click!

Right before the shutter snaps, Priscilla suddenly turns toward me and—

Smooch.

She plants a kiss on my left cheek.

My brain freezes. System error. Alex.exe has crashed.

The camera flashes.

Click.

The photo is taken.

“GOTCHA!” she giggles, pulling away.

I don’t know how long I stand there stunned like a statue, but I do know Sylvia’s expression has gone from smiling angel 😇 to something more like a smiling yandere boss character 🥰 emitting a subtle but unmistakable aura of “I will destroy you.”

Her smile widens as she steps forward.

“My turn.”

She slides in beside me like a graceful swan… with a concealed dagger behind her back.

“Ready, darling?” she purrs sweetly, while the air around her goes from zero to DEFCON 1.

Click!

Just as the flash goes off—

Smooch.

A kiss on my right cheek.

Now I’m stunned again.

Camera girl lowers the camera, blinking.

“Uhhh… okay, wow… okay! We got both!”

Priscilla throws up a peace sign.
Sylvia folds her arms around mine and rests her head on my shoulder.
And me?

I'm standing there in full school formal, cheeks red, both sides kissed, and with at least twenty students watching us like it’s a reality drama.

Behind us, I hear Jingo wailing.

“THAT DAMN BASTARD!! First one cheek, THEN THE OTHER!?”

Yandi grabs his shoulders.

“Hold it together, bro! Don’t let it break ya!”

Basir and Mat walk past with solemn nods.

“Bro’s done for. He ain’t surviving this triangle…”

I exhale slowly.

Sylvia and Priscilla are smiling.

But their eyes?
Oh no.
This isn’t over.
This is just the prelude to war.

"Note to self: never underestimate pretty girls in heels.

The event hasn't even started, and I'm already marked for emotional execution.”