The senior class auditorium was packed wall to wall, the kind of crowd that made the air feel thick and electric. Late September sunlight poured through high windows, turning dust motes into tiny floating sparks. Everyone knew something big was coming; the principal only called full assemblies for scholarships, scandals, or cultural festival announcements.
Principal Nakamura stepped to the podium and tapped the mic twice. Feedback screeched. Half the room groaned.
"Settle down, settle down. I won't keep you long." He smiled the practiced smile of someone who had delivered this speech in front of teenagers for twenty-three years. "As you are all aware, the cultural festival is ninety days away. This year's theme—Harmony in Chaos—asks us to find beauty in contradiction, order in disorder."
A few people in the back snorted. Nakamura ignored them.
"To give the main stage performance the attention it deserves, the faculty has decided on a new approach. The entire centerpiece event—concept, script, music, staging, promotion—will be designed and led by our two highest-ranked students in the senior year. Together. Equal responsibility. Equal credit."
The room went still. Then whispers exploded like popcorn in a microwave.
Akira Takahashi sat third row center, spine straight, hands folded on his lap. Black-rimmed glasses, navy blazer buttoned once, tie knot so perfect it could have been measured with calipers. He hadn't moved a muscle since the principal started speaking. He didn't need to. He already knew the next sentence.
"Rank one: Takahashi Akira."
Applause—polite, expected, brief. A cluster of second-year girls near the aisle sighed in unison. Akira gave the smallest nod possible, the gesture so economical it barely qualified as acknowledgment.
"And rank two…" Nakamura let the pause stretch just long enough to be theatrical, "…Hayashi Sora."
A single chair leg screeched across the floor like nails on chalkboard.
Sora Hayashi stood up so fast the person behind her flinched. Messy high ponytail swinging, blazer sleeves shoved to her elbows, one earbud dangling from her collar like she'd been interrupted mid-song. Her green eyes locked on the stage, then flicked to the front row.
"You're joking."
The words carried. Several people laughed nervously.
Nakamura chuckled like a fond uncle. "No joke, Hayashi-san. You and Takahashi will report to the student council room after final bell today. Full creative authority. Three months. Make us proud. Dismissed."
The bell rang before anyone could process it fully.
Students surged toward the exits. Akira rose in one smooth motion, collected his notebook, and headed for the side door—the fastest route to the science wing. He almost made it.
A hand slapped against the doorframe right in front of his face, blocking the way.
Hayashi Sora.
Up close she smelled faintly of strawberry lip balm and the citrus body spray half the track team used. Her gaze was level with his collarbone, but the intensity made the height difference irrelevant.
"Takahashi," she said, voice low enough that only he could hear. "We need to talk."
He adjusted his glasses—a single, deliberate movement. "We have a meeting scheduled at 16:00. That will suffice."
"No. Now." She didn't move her arm. "Because if we wait until the council room, you'll already have a forty-page proposal typed up and I'll be playing catch-up for the next three months."
Akira met her eyes. Green. Sharp. Unblinking.
"I have no forty-page proposal. Yet."
"Liar." She leaned in half a step. "You've probably had bullet points since last week's midterms rankings dropped."
He didn't deny it.
Sora exhaled through her nose. "Look. I know you hate me. I know I annoy you. I know you think I'm reckless and loud and second place is just a participation trophy with extra steps."
Akira remained silent. That was usually enough to make people back off.
Not her.
"But here's the thing," she continued. "This isn't debate club. This isn't math olympiad. This is the one event every single person in this school will remember us by. If we crash and burn, it's both our names on the wreckage. So either we figure out how to work together, or we both look like idiots in front of two thousand people."
For the first time that afternoon, Akira felt something shift under his ribs. Not anger. Not irritation. Something colder and more dangerous—recognition.
She wasn't wrong.
He stepped back exactly one pace. "16:00. Student council room. Bring whatever notes you have."
Sora studied him another second, then dropped her arm. "Fine. But if you try to steamroll me with spreadsheets, I'm burning them."
"I don't use spreadsheets for creative work," he said evenly. "Only timelines."
She snorted despite herself. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
She turned and walked away, ponytail bouncing with each step. Akira watched her disappear into the crowd, then continued to his next class.
Inside his head, a quiet voice he usually ignored whispered:
Three months of that. Every day.
He crushed the thought immediately.
Hate was simpler.
Hate didn't require negotiation.