10:00 AM – Narumi Residence, Living Room
The TV blasted sound into the Narumi living room like it had no understanding of indoor volume. On-screen, a man in a checkered blazer shouted joyfully, flipping fish balls in a pan, while behind him the words "Man Sarino Torned Cuna" flashed across the screen in bold, blinding letters.
"What the hell is this?" Conrad Narumi muttered to himself, squinting at the commercial. "Is this a hotdog ad? Or a public warning?"
The host on the screen laughed maniacally and dumped fish sauce into what appeared to be a blender full of rice and ice cubes. Conrad narrowed his eyes. "Nope. Nope. I refuse to live in a country where this wins best commercial."
Still in his ratty white tank top and a pair of basketball shorts that had long given up, Conrad lounged sideways on the couch, belly half-exposed, scratching at a mosquito bite on his ankle with a fly swatter. Beside him, Droopy snored on a throw pillow shaped like a pig.
Just then, Jamie Narumi descended the stairs with the unhurried elegance of someone who did everything on purpose. Her outfit was casual but flawless—high-waisted jeans, a black crop top, and a light khaki overshirt tied at the waist. Her shoulder bag matched her sneakers. Her hair, loosely curled, shimmered under the ceiling light.
"Hi Dad," she said, slinging her bag over one shoulder.
Conrad glanced up, his eyes immediately narrowing.
"Hi sweetie," he said, sitting up straighter. "Where you going? You look like you're about to host a YouTube haul or confront a cheating ex."
"Stephanie and I are going to look for a gown," Jamie said, picking up a bottle of water from the table. "Prom's tonight."
"Oh right," Conrad said. "The thing with the glitter and the fake crowns. What's the budget? Does it involve me crying later?"
"No," Jamie said, smiling faintly. "We're just looking. Stephanie wants drama. I just want fabric that breathes."
"Solid choice," Conrad nodded. "Some gowns these days look like armor for Star Wars background dancers."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "How do you even know what Star Wars is?"
"I dated someone once who made me watch all nine films," he said. "Never again. Except that one with the sand guy. That was okay."
"That's Anakin, Dad."
"Yeah, yeah. Him. The guy who hated sand. Honestly, I relate."
Jamie checked her phone. "We're meeting Thea at the mall."
"Ah," Conrad said knowingly. "Thea. The one who makes my garden look like a prop from a '70s horror movie."
"She's got a new aesthetic now. Less 'witchy herbs,' more 'Scandinavian succulents.'"
"That's worse. I miss the toyo-smelling plants."
Jamie rolled her eyes as Stephanie appeared at the top of the stairs in a pair of massive sunglasses and a denim jacket over a black mini dress. "Let's go. The gown section's gonna get raided before lunch."
"Are you wearing lipstick?" Conrad asked.
Stephanie paused, hands on hips. "Dad, this is lip tint. It's 'dusty rose.'"
"Dusty rose sounds like a stripper name."
"Dad," Jamie said warningly, already walking toward the door.
Conrad stood and followed them. "Take care, okay? Don't let people scam you with overpriced chiffon and 'hand-stitched emotional trauma.'"
Jamie leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "We'll be fine."
"I raised you to handle salespeople and emotionally manipulative store clerks," Conrad said proudly. "Don't be afraid to ask for a discount like it's a birthright."
"We know," Stephanie said, adjusting her sunglasses. "You tried to haggle at a buffet once."
"They were overcharging for soup!"
The front door closed behind them, and the house settled back into a lazy silence.
Conrad looked down at Droopy, who had rolled over onto his back. "You ever been to a prom, Droops?"
Droopy let out a soft fart.
Conrad nodded. "Yeah. Same."
---
The Grandview Galleria was already filling with weekend foot traffic by noon, but the second floor remained hushed — a corridor of glass boutiques, slow jazz, and espresso shops with names like Caffé Mystic and Bean Bastion. Stephanie Narumi walked ahead, sipping an iced matcha latte she hadn't paid for. She had, with a slight smirk, convinced the barista it was for "Narumi—VIP preorder."
Behind her, Jamie and Thea strolled shoulder to shoulder.
"I still don't get why you're even going to prom," Thea said, arms crossed over her oversized linen blazer. "You hate crowds. You hate loud music. You hate gowns."
Jamie shrugged, adjusting the strap of her purse. "I don't hate gowns. I just hate glitter."
Thea snorted. "That's like saying you don't hate horror movies, you just hate ghosts."
Stephanie, still sipping, turned slightly. "She's right. You're allergic to sparkle. Remember that one time in third year, someone gave you a bedazzled notebook and you donated it to charity out of spite?"
"It was covered in rhinestones," Jamie said. "I couldn't even write in it without blinding myself."
The boutique they entered—Maison D'Amour—was the kind of place where the air smelled like imported cedarwood and lavender. Soft piano music played overhead. Sales staff wore black and white like butlers in a perfume ad.
"Welcome," said a tall associate with an angular bob. "Are we shopping for the gala or for war?"
"Prom," Stephanie answered. "Which, depending on how it goes, may be both."
Jamie gravitated silently toward the sleek end of the showroom—gowns in blacks, deep blues, and muted silvers. No frills. No sequins. She passed her fingers across the fabric, cool to the touch, her expression unreadable.
Thea trailed behind her. "You know," she said quietly, "you could just not go. It's not like you need it for your résumé."
Jamie paused. Her hand lingered on a slate-blue dress.
"It's not about the résumé."
"Then what is it?"
Jamie turned, slowly. Her expression wasn't hard, but it wasn't open either. "I just want one night where I'm not 'Jamie Narumi, future world dominator.' One night where I can walk in and people don't expect a speech."
Thea blinked. "That's...a real answer."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Surprised?"
"A little. But also proud."
Meanwhile, Stephanie was twirling in front of a mirror, holding a shimmering red cocktail dress against her body. "This makes me look like I have decisions to make and a husband to ruin."
"Try it," Jamie said without looking. "And we'll find you backup heels."
"Blessed be," Stephanie replied.
They spent the next half hour moving in practiced silence, like generals scanning a map. Jamie settled on a dark, clean-cut number with an off-shoulder neckline and no embellishments—just elegance, just control.
"You're gonna look like an assassin sent to eliminate the prom queen," Thea commented.
Jamie smiled faintly. "Good."
When they stepped out of the store, the bags were light, but the moment had weight.
For once, everything felt...still.
Jamie checked her phone. A message from Kael lit up the screen.
"See u tonight?"
She stared at it for three full seconds, then pocketed the phone without replying.
Stephanie caught the movement. "That from Mr. Songbird?"
"Doesn't matter."
Thea glanced at her sideways. "You sure?"
Jamie nodded. "He's old news. I'm going for the fabric."
----
The University of Manila's Grand Ballroom at the Lucero Hotel was drenched in faux elegance — fairy lights tangled like vines along the rafters, a mirrored dance floor polished to the point of paranoia, and tables overloaded with glittering cutlery and cheap fondue. A DJ in a leather vest spun lo-fi remixes of old OPM songs as if he'd been kidnapped from a retro bar and dropped into Gen Z chaos.
Jamie Narumi entered with Stephanie and Thea, their trio parting the crowd like a fashion-forward military formation. Jamie's slate-blue gown hugged her figure in a way that was almost stern — no sequins, no flowers, no softness. She looked like someone who might demand a UN vote during a slow dance.
Students turned. Eyes lingered. Phones came out.
Thea leaned in. "Heads are turning."
"They're just curious," Jamie replied, scanning the room with quiet calculation. "Like when a wild animal walks into a bank."
Stephanie flipped her hair. "Well, the wild animal has better contour."
At the buffet, Kael was already two drinks in, swirling fruit punch in a champagne flute like he was auditioning for The Bachelor. He wore a white tux with a rose gold bowtie and far too much cologne. His eyes zeroed in on Jamie like a laser-guided ex-boyfriend.
Beside him, Sophia, radiant in emerald silk and emotional instability, narrowed her eyes.
"Look at her," she muttered, watching Jamie. "Smug. Pretending she's above all this."
"She is," Kael said, downing his drink. "But not for long."
Meanwhile, Bernard Medrano had just arrived, escorted by Bernardine, who insisted they walk in together "for optics." His tux was a bit loose at the collar, but he cleaned up well — casual, underdressed charm in a sea of overdressed stress.
He spotted Jamie across the ballroom — still unreadable, still cool.
"She came," he said.
Bernardine rolled her eyes. "Of course she came. She's genetically incapable of skipping a structured event."
Onstage, the emcee cleared his throat and adjusted his fake diamond lapel pin.
"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed faculty, confused freshmen who snuck in—welcome to the 2025 Promenade Royale! Now, for the main event: the crowning of our Prom King and Queen!"
The crowd cheered. Jamie blinked in confusion.
Thea leaned over. "Did you sign up for this?"
"I didn't even know I was nominated."
Stephanie casually checked her nails. "You're nominated for everything. They probably nominated you for 'Most Likely to Build a Megacorp.'"
"And the winner for Prom Queen is..." the emcee paused dramatically, pulling from an envelope.
"...Jamie Narumi!"
Scattered applause. Gasps. One enthusiastic "Yas queen!" from the marketing majors.
Jamie looked... irritated. She stood slowly, giving a polite wave as she approached the stage.
At that exact moment, Kael sprang into action.
"I want the mic," he whispered to the tech guy beside the stage.
"Uh, it's not—"
Kael had already taken it.
"Wait," he said, voice wobbling slightly through the speakers. "Before she gets crowned... I just want to say something."
Jamie froze mid-step.
"Oh no," Stephanie whispered. "Here we go."
Kael turned to the crowd, dramatically loosening his bowtie. "This one's for you, Jamie."
The first note he sang was too high. The second was off-key. By the third, people were filming.
"Kaaaaaye Lynn... my heaaaart... you walked away like a shopping caaaart..."
The melody crashed into a wall of cringe. Jamie's lips pressed into a tight, white line.
Bernard, watching from the sidelines, winced as Kael attempted a falsetto.
"Make it stop," Thea muttered.
"I can't. I think we're in a hostage situation," Stephanie whispered.
Kael spun dramatically, pointing at Jamie like he was delivering a proposal. The crowd laughed, unsure whether to cheer or pray for him.
Jamie stood frozen, mortified.
And then—without fanfare—Bernard walked up on stage.
Calm, collected, one hand in his pocket, he leaned over and gently removed the mic from Kael's hand mid-verse.
"That's enough stage time for one failed EP," he said with a crooked smile.
The crowd roared.
Kael blinked, dazed, as Arnie emerged from nowhere and guided him offstage like a security detail removing a delusional guest judge.
Jamie and Bernard locked eyes.
No teasing. No grin. Just a simple nod from him.
She didn't nod back.
But she also didn't walk away.
---
The ballroom had returned to its usual thrum of bass and gossip. Kael was off somewhere behind a curtain, drinking punch like it owed him child support. Sophia was fake-laughing through clenched teeth at a guy with a man bun and a poetry podcast. Bernard had disappeared the moment he handed the mic off.
And Jamie was gone too.
Upstairs, on the rooftop terrace of the Lucero Hotel, the city stretched like circuitry below—cars blinking in slow rhythm, air heavy with humidity and light pollution. The rooftop was cordoned off with waist-high glass panels and faux ivy. No one else was up there. Just soft ambient lighting, a vending machine humming in the corner, and the sky refusing to show stars.
Jamie stepped out, heels quiet on the tile. She exhaled slowly, the cool night air pressing gently against her bare shoulders. She leaned against the railing, letting the wind tug slightly at her hair.
"Didn't peg you as someone who escapes parties," said a voice behind her.
She turned.
Bernard stood near the vending machine, soda can in hand, the other stuffed into his pocket. His tie was gone, his top button undone, and his hair had that specific disheveled tilt that made it unclear whether he'd been dancing or thinking too hard.
Jamie said nothing for a second. Then: "Didn't peg you as someone who's quiet after stealing the spotlight."
"I didn't steal it," he said, walking closer, his tone more grounded than smug. "I just... redirected the train wreck."
Jamie looked back out over the city. "He used to sing better."
"That was singing?"
She almost smiled.
Bernard leaned beside her against the railing, leaving enough space between them for plausible deniability.
"I didn't do it to embarrass him," he said.
"I know."
Pause.
"Thank you," Jamie said finally. It was soft. Like it cost her something to say.
Bernard tilted his head. "Is that the first time you've said that to me?"
"It might be."
"I feel honored. Kind of like a scientist discovering a new species."
Jamie sighed. "Don't ruin it."
"Noted."
They stood in companionable silence, the kind that doesn't itch to be filled.
After a moment, Jamie said, "I didn't want to win Prom Queen."
"You looked like you wanted to vanish," Bernard said.
She glanced at him. "I hate this kind of attention. It feels... dishonest. People vote because they're scared of me. Or impressed by me. Not because they like me."
"I think some people like you."
"You don't count. You think I'm terrifying."
"I do," he admitted. "But I also think you're... real."
Jamie blinked. "That's an odd compliment."
"It is. But it fits you."
Another pause.
Below them, the party continued like nothing had happened. Up here, it felt like another world.
Jamie looked at him again, this time more closely.
"You're different up here."
Bernard smirked faintly. "You're the one who wore a Bond villain dress and still thanked someone."
She rolled her eyes. "You really don't know how to take a compliment."
"I do. I just... deflect by being charming. It's a curse."
Jamie let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
"You don't owe me anything," Bernard added, more serious now. "I just couldn't watch that happen."
Jamie stared at him for a beat.
"I didn't think you were the type to step in. I thought you liked watching me squirm."
"I thought I did," he admitted. "Turns out, not really."
She looked down at her hands. "I'm not used to being rescued."
He shrugged. "I'm not used to doing the rescuing."
Another silence. Longer this time.
Then Jamie pushed off the railing. "Well. You've done your good deed for the year."
He grinned. "I might have more in me."
She raised an eyebrow. "We'll see."
And just like that, she turned and walked back toward the rooftop door. Before disappearing inside, she glanced over her shoulder.
He hadn't moved.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't scowl either.
Progress.
----
Downstairs, the ballroom had sunk back into the regular throb of a university prom—overdressed students doing awkward dances, underwhelming finger food being demolished by underclassmen, and photographers asking people to "look natural" while posing like mannequins.
At the edge of the crowd, Kael sat on a gold-painted banquet chair, chin resting on his palm, surrounded by the hollow buzz of conversations that didn't include him. His shirt was half untucked. His bowtie was missing. A lipstick smear—definitely not his own—was faintly visible on the back of his hand.
He stared blankly at the punch bowl as if it had personally betrayed him.
"You embarrassed yourself," Sophia said, standing beside him with arms folded, her expression sharp enough to draw blood.
"I was being honest," Kael mumbled.
"You were being pathetic," she replied.
"Maybe if you backed me up instead of acting like you're hosting the Met Gala..."
Sophia laughed bitterly. "Don't blame me because you tanked harder than your solo album."
Kael winced. "That was below the belt."
"No, that was exactly where it needed to be."
She scanned the dance floor. Across the room, she saw Jamie walking calmly toward the exit, shoulders squared, face unreadable. Thea and Stephanie flanked her, forming a triangle of intent. Jamie didn't glance back at the stage. She didn't need to.
Sophia's jaw tensed.
"They look smug," she muttered.
"They look like they won," Kael replied, rubbing his face.
"No. They just got lucky." Her eyes narrowed. "Next time, they won't."
On the other side of the ballroom, Bernard stood near the double doors, arms folded, watching Jamie from a distance. He didn't try to approach. Didn't try to call out. He just watched her go.
Jamie reached the exit and paused for half a second, as if sensing something. She turned—just briefly—and their eyes met across the sea of sequins and LED chandeliers.
He gave her a small nod.
She didn't nod back.
But she didn't look away, either.
Then she turned and walked out into the night.
Bernard exhaled slowly.
Near him, Arnie sidled up, holding two slices of prom cake and offering one. "So... was that the beginning of something or the end of everything?"
Bernard took the cake but didn't answer.