Thanks to the play which was about to start, the gym had gone from organized chaos to something close to a living organism.
Footsteps echoed on polished floors, voices layered in multiple directions, projectors hummed, booths opened, curtains drew back, and the air smelled like fried batter and acrylic paint. Students flowed in from the courtyard and stairwells in steady currents, laughing, pushing, calling out to friends across booths.
Max stood at one of the gym's side exits, arm still sore from moving equipment earlier, badge and armband on, trying to map the environment with his eyes.
He hadn't found Sera again yet.
Not that he'd been looking perfectly—every time he moved toward one area, someone called his name. Someone needed a ladder. Someone needed cable ties. Someone needed the key to the storage room. It felt like running a relay on unfamiliar terrain.
A boy from the sound crew jogged up, panting.
"Holloway—hey—Takamine needs you backstage," he managed between breaths. "She said ASAP or she's personally hunting you down."
Max didn't waste time asking why. He just moved.
He slipped through the rows of seats and passed behind the stage curtains, where the atmosphere shifted—quieter, tense, full of clipped instructions and last-minute adjustments. Stage crew moved like they were in the wings of a military operation: camera angles checked, scripts marked, lighting panels tapped, monitors flicked on.
Reina stood near a folding table stacked with programs and staff radios. Her uniform was still perfect, but strands of hair clung to her temples. She had two clipboards clipped into one another and was scanning both simultaneously with the same intensity other people reserved for bomb defusal.
"Reina," Max said as he approached.
Her head snapped up.
Just for a moment—barely a blink—her shoulders dropped. The breath she let out wasn't just relief; it was recognition.
"There you are," she said quietly.
No sharp jokes. No bossy commands. Just… there you are.
He stopped halfway to her, expecting instructions.
"What do you need?" he asked.
Reina didn't answer immediately. She set the clipboards down, palms flat on them, then closed he eyes once like she was resetting her brain before looking at him again.
"Come here," she said, softer.
He stepped closer.
"You've been everywhere today," she continued, voice level but lacking her usual performance polish. "Backstage. Gym floor. Classrooms. Courtyard. People keep telling me 'Holloway handled it.' I don't even have to ask anymore."
Max blinked. He opened his mouth to say something, but she held up a hand—not to stop him, just to keep the moment from changing too fast.
"Before the doors opened," she said, "I thought I was going to crack."
She wasn't looking at the clipboards now. She wasn't even scanning the environment. She was looking at him.
"I've organized five school events," she went on. "Three as a member, two as a lead. I've dealt with missing equipment, sick performers, last-minute withdrawals, power outages… but today felt different."
Another student ran past calling her name, but she didn't turn. It was like the world could wait a few seconds.
"This time," she said, "I wasn't sure I could carry it."
Max's eyebrows pulled together.
"You did," he said.
Her eyes flickered—not with pride, but with something heavier.
"No," she corrected, shaking her head just slightly. "We did."
There were no theatrics. No gratitude wrapped in charisma. It was just true.
Reina reached for something on the table—at first he thought it was a radio, but instead she picked up a folded cloth pad.
Inside it was a bottle of water, a packet of paincmeds, and a cooling patch.
She placed it in his hands.
"You didn't stop moving for six hours," she said. "You helped the sound crew, art club, stage team, council, and half the student body. You solved problems before they turned into fires."
Max didn't know what to do with his hands, or the kit, or her voice.
Reina continued, shoulders trembling just slightly as she steadied her breath.
"And you didn't ask for credit. Or permission. Or recognition." Her gaze sharpened, not accusing—appraising. "Do you have any idea how rare that is?"
Max swallowed. "…No."
Reina exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a release of pressure.
"Thank you," she said.
Just that.
Not sarcastic. Not playful. A thank-you meant for exactly one person.
Max wasn't sure what his face did. All he could manage was a small nod.
Reina didn't smile. That would've cheapened it. She just studied him a little longer, like she was memorizing proof of something.
Then, quietly, she asked:
"Have you seen Ryo?"
The question didn't sound worried—not yet—but it carried weight that didn't belong to the event.
"No," Max said. "Not today."
She nodded once, eyes dipping to the floor for half a second before she straightened.
"Okay. If you see him, tell him I need the updated guest list. Council said it was finalized last night but I haven't gotten it."
Her tone tried to shift back to business, but it didn't quite make it all the way.
Max tucked the kit under his arm. "I'll tell him."
Reina opened her mouth as if to say something else, then let it close—like she'd run out of words worth using.
Before she could decide between silence or new orders, a shout erupted from the stage crew:
"Takamine! Five minutes!"
Reina inhaled sharply, shoulders locking back into place. The event leader crystallized over the vulnerable girl in front of him like armor reforming.
"I have to go," she said, grabbing her clipboards.
She moved past him—but paused just one step later, half-turned, face unreadable from profile.
"Stay nearby for a bit," she said. "If things go wrong, I'd rather it be you."
Then she vanished toward the stage.
Max stood still for a long second, processing the kit in his hands, the gratitude in his chest, and the question about Ryo lingering without explanation.
He finally stepped out from backstage into the gym again.
The Cultural Exhibition was at full volume now.
Students cheered from the stage where the drama club performed a comedic play. Parents filmed performances on their phones. Clubs called out to visitors, advertising food stalls and games. The air was warm and electric.
Max scanned for Sera out of habit, but the crowd swallowed patterns easily. Bright hair clips, club uniforms, cosplay, cultural clothing—it was sensory overload in motion.
A first-year grabbed his sleeve.
"Holloway! Can you help us move a table?"
Max glanced toward the stage—Reina had eyes everywhere and would see if he vanished, so he nodded.
"Where?"
The kid led him two booths down to the art club's interactive display. Max lifted one end of the table, another student raised the other, and together they shifted it behind a divider.
"Thanks!" they chirped, bowing before rushing off.
Max stepped away—
—and that's when a voice came from behind him:
"Holloway!"
He turned in time for someone to wave frantically from near the projector booth.
The literature club captain sprinted toward him, script pages flapping like broken wings.
"Please—please—can you help us patch the banner? It's tearing and the performance hasn't started yet—"
Max checked the stage: the drama club was still mid-performance.
"Lead the way," he said.
The captain nearly wept from relief and dragged him toward the stairs leading to the second-floor mezzanine above the gym. Max followed, grabbed the fraying edge of the oversized cloth banner, and hoisted it while they stapled reinforcements along the back.
Students below clapped at a punchline in the play, unaware of the banner crisis overhead.
When it was secure, the captain clasped Max's hands like he'd saved a life.
"We owe you! Seriously! The council would've killed us if that fell!"
Max nodded once. "It's fine."
He walked back down the stairs, weaving toward the exit—
When someone grabbed his wrist.
Sera.
Her grip was light, but sudden enough to stop him mid-step.
"You disappeared again," she said.
Her voice wasn't angry—but it wasn't teasing either. It was something between disappointment and worry.
"I was helping," he said.
"I know," she replied, releasing his wrist. Her eyes flicked to the badge, the armband, the event around them. "You're always helping."
Max opened his mouth to say something—something that might've mattered—but a voice cut between them:
"Holloway! Emergency!"
Max's jaw tightened.
Sera's did too, barely.
"Go," she said before he could choose.
He took one step backward.
"I'll find you later," he said.
Sera nodded once, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"You said that last time."
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
And Max—badge pulling him by invisible strings—turned toward the next crisis.
But as he moved through the crowd, weaving between families and students, a small, unfamiliar ache settled behind his ribs.
For the first time since the event began—
He wasn't sure if he wanted to be needed this much.
There were applause bursts from the stage.
Projectors flickered to life for the next show.
The gym lights shifted, curtains reset, and the second wave of the Cultural Exhibition began.
Max took a breath—
And kept moving.
Because helping was the only thing keeping him from thinking too hard.
Because Sera was somewhere waiting.
Because Reina trusted him.
And because Ryo was still nowhere to be found.