The gym emptied slower than it should have. No one rushed the doors, no one turned their backs until Max—Daniel Holloway now—walked out with Sera at his side.
He hadn't chosen her. She had chosen him.
Her steps were light, blazer swinging loose, skirt swaying with every motion. His blazer was folded over his shoulder, sleeves still rolled, tie loosened. Phones tilted up like antennae as they cut through the middle of the whispering crowd.
"They're leaving together." "Akane Emi and Holloway…" "No way, already?"
Sera's grin never faltered. She leaned a little closer to him, not enough to be obvious, just enough to set rumors on fire.
Outside, the air carried a faint chill. Lamps buzzed on, painting the courtyard in yellow haze. They walked side by side past the gates, footsteps falling steady in the rhythm of a story the crowd had already started to write.
"Looks like we're canon now," she said, voice pitched to be heard.
Max kept his eyes forward. "Canon?"
"You'll catch on," she teased. "People like pairing stories together. Girl walks up, cheers for boy in a fight, boy wins. Boom. They're shipping us before we hit the gates."
"I didn't agree to that."
"You don't get to agree. You're a character now." She flicked a hand at the clusters of students pretending not to stare. "See?"
Whispers rippled through the line for the bus.
"Transfer pair?" "She's fire, he's ice." "Emi's too good for him." "No, he's the perfect match—he looks dangerous."
Max's jaw flexed. "I didn't ask for this."
"You don't get to ask." She smirked at the students craning their necks from the bus stop. "Stories write themselves when people want them to."
Max kept his eyes forward. "Then let them write. Doesn't mean I'll read it."
He didn't answer. She didn't need him to.
Sera laughed, clear and sharp. They left the gates together, their paths splitting only once they hit the residential streets. Neighbors tended gardens. A vendor pulled down his stall shutters. The world outside the school didn't know them, but every glance they'd passed inside still clung like static.
Sera slowed, gave him a two-fingered salute. "Night, Daniel. Try not to dream in grayscale. I'll text. The safe-house room Justice had given him looked almost too normal. A clean bed with sheets tucked hospital-tight. A desk with a lamp that buzzed faintly. Beige curtains half-drawn against the city's glow. Even a plant on the windowsill—something someone had placed there on purpose to make the space look lived-in.
It wasn't lived-in. It was staged. A room built to trick him into thinking it was safe.
Max dropped his blazer on the chair, pulled his tie loose, and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence pressed too close, a silence that wasn't real either. Not after the noise of the gym.
His knuckles still hummed from the spar, not with pain but with the memory of contact. The crowd's eyes clung to him like fingerprints. He hadn't burned, but he hadn't blended either.
For a while he just sat there, staring at the ceiling. Wondering if this was what Justice wanted—for him to drown in a room that looked like freedom but wasn't.
The vibration cut through the hum at 21:06. His phone, face-down on the desk, buzzed against the wood.
He turned it over. A new notification.
Elias created group "2-B Audit." Elias added Imani. Elias added Cael. Elias added Sera. Elias added Daniel.
Max exhaled through his nose. Of course Elias would start a chat. He was the kind who didn't waste words in person, but made sure things were structured when no one was watching.
Max thumbed the screen. The chat opened, the glow painting his face in pale light.
Elias: Quick check-in. Phones only. Keep it brief.
Imani: Here. Clubs already pulling me in. Music, volunteer work, easy cover. No red flags yet.
Cael: Present. I charted 2-B's layout. Three dominant clusters. Stares matter more than words.
Sera: lol so official. "Audit." just say gossip hour. Sera: anyway, you're welcome for the ship name. Emi x Holloway is live.
Imani: You encouraged it.
Sera: Of course I did. Better to control the story than let them invent worse ones.
Elias: Focus. Martial arts incident. Holloway?
Max sat on the edge of his bed, lamp humming, locker key resting on the desk beside him. He typed, deleted, then typed again.
Max: The fight wasn't the problem. The crowd was. Too many eyes. Like they wanted to decide who I was before I could.
Imani: Crowds do that. They build their own gravity.
Cael: You looked unsettled. Not uncontrolled. That distinction matters.
Sera: translation: big bad Holloway got stage fright. cute.
Max: I didn't like it. But… I didn't hate winning either.
Three dots blinked. Then:
Imani: That's honest. Good enough.
Cael: I'll track resentment. Negatives point to threats.
Sera: negatives logged:
1. Kento in 2-B wants Holloway's head.
2. Two girls in 2-C hate me for existing.
3. Council secretary watches us like a hawk.
Elias: Logged. Good work. Sleep. Tomorrow matters more.
The group chat dimmed out. One by one their names grayed, last seen ticks appearing beside Elias's last message.
Max set the phone down. The lamp buzzed. The plant didn't move. The silence stretched.
Then his screen lit again.
Private chat — Sera
Sera: u didn't talk much in there Sera: guess you save your words for when ppl are watching
Max stared at the screen. His thumb hovered. He typed slow.
Max: I said enough. Sera: enough for Elias maybe. not for me.
A pause. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Typed again.
Max: You just like noise. Sera: i like attention. difference.
His lips twitched—almost a smile, but not.
Max: Then you got what you wanted. Sera: oh i know. ppl already writing fanfics in their heads. sera x holloway. you should see the looks i got at the bus stop.
Max leaned back on the bed, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling.
Max: I didn't sign up for that. Sera: no one signs up for being interesting. it just happens.
He exhaled through his nose.
Max: And if it gets us exposed? Sera: then we act like it was all planned. easy.
The dots pulsed. He didn't reply.
Sera: …you didn't hate it tho. when they watched you. Max: What makes you think that? Sera: the way you rolled your sleeves like you knew what it would do. that wasn't blending. that was showing.
Max's fingers stilled on the keyboard. The words sat there. Accusation, or maybe truth.
He typed, finally.
Max: I don't need them. Sera: maybe not. but you need something. and right now? that something is me.
The message glowed in the dim room. He didn't reply this time.
After a moment, three dots pulsed again.
Sera: night, holloway. dream something interesting for once.
The chat went quiet. The glow faded.
Max set the phone down, stared at the ceiling again, but her words didn't fade.
Not noise. Not attention. Something else.
The morning came too quick.
Max buttoned his blazer with slow, deliberate motions. Tie knotted tighter than yesterday. Sleeves cuffed clean, hiding what the whispers wanted to see. His reflection in the mirror was Daniel Holloway, transfer student. Not Max Hart. Not fire.
But when he stepped into the stairwell, he heard it before he even saw anyone.
"Emi and Holloway?" "Did you see the video?" "He dropped that guy like nothing—straight out of a drama."
The words traveled up the walls, sticky, sharp. His name wasn't his anymore; it was theirs, dragged through voices like gossip already written.
By the shoe lockers, the voices got louder.
"She's the queen already." "And he's… what even is he? A prince?" "They don't even look like transfers. They look written."
Max walked steady, ignoring it. Justice's order still echoed: blend in. But blending was already impossible.
Class 2-B was no quieter.
He slid the door open and felt the shift—thirty eyes turning, quiet that wasn't quiet at all. Whispers pulled taut and snapped under the weight of him stepping inside.
Takeda was first. She offered him a quick whisper as he sat down. "Morning." She nudged her notebook closer to his desk, page marked already, subtle kindness she didn't seem to think twice about.
Max nodded once. "Thanks."
The class clown—whose name he'd finally learned was David—leaned over his chair with a grin that could've split his face. "Yo, Holloway, lunch soccer today. No excuses. We need you. You look like a secret striker."
Max glanced up from his notebook. The corners of his mouth lifted, subtle, not a grin but close enough. "You've got the energy of three people already. Maybe lend me some when Hale calls on me again."
David pointed both fingers at him like he'd just scored. "See? I like this guy. Holloway's got jokes."
Priya, the clout-chaser, cut in, her phone half-hidden under her book. "Jokes? No, no—he's got aesthetic. Holloway, give me a quote right now. Something broody. I'll post it with your face and it'll get traction."
Max tilted his head slightly, as if weighing whether she was serious. Then he spoke, voice steady. "You'll probably make me famous whether I agree or not, right?"
Priya's smirk widened. "Exactly. You get it. No wonder Emi—" she stopped herself, lips curling into a sly grin. "Never mind."
The whispers sharpened instantly.
Max didn't bite. He just turned a page in his book, smooth, calm. Which somehow made it worse.
Kento, still tense from earlier, snapped the stub of his broken pencil once more, then leaned forward. His voice was low, rough. "West District, huh? Transfers like you don't just show up here clean. What'd you do?"
The whole row went quiet, waiting for a fight.
Max didn't meet the hostility with fire. He turned just enough to look at him, eyes level, voice even. "I wasn't trying to bother you. But if I did… I'll keep to my lane."
For a second, it disarmed Kento. The blunt force he was waiting for never came. The room shifted—some impressed, some surprised, some disappointed they didn't get a blowup.
Takeda leaned closer, whispering under her breath, "That's new. Most people don't get him to shut up that fast."
David whistled low, rocking back in his chair. "I guess your actually the Cold prince everyone's talking about. I dig it."
Priya snapped her fingers like she'd found gold. "Cold prince. That's exactly what I'm calling him online."
The class stirred again, energy buzzing. And through it all, Max just sat still, expression unreadable, as if none of it touched him.
The teacher's voice finally cut through, chalk scratching across the board. "Chapter four. Definitions matter."
Pages turned. Pens moved. But under it all, the noise didn't stop. Whispers bled between breaths, carried by paper shuffles and the scratch of graphite. His name was caught in them every time.
Then it happened.
A shadow cut across the window.
Sera—Akane Emi to them—passing by. Blazer loose. Skirt swaying with that easy, defiant rhythm. Her hair caught the sunlight, bright enough to catch every pair of eyes that bothered to look outside. She didn't stop. She didn't wave, didn't pause—but she turned just enough to let a smirk curve across her lips.
Half the room caught it. That was all it took.
"Wait…did she just—" "She looked at Holloway." "No way. You saw that, right?"
The reactions split in layers.
A pair of girls in the middle row leaned toward each other, whispering sharp: "She's already attached?" "Figures. Always the quiet ones."
In the back, a boy muttered low, not bothering to hide the bite. "Tch. Guy's only been here for two days."
At the window row, another voice carried just enough to sting. "He didn't even look surprised."
Not everyone was sour. Takeda glanced his way, eyes wide, almost impressed.
A few others stifled laughs, half-teasing, half-awed. "Cold prince gets the queen already." "Looks like we've got royalty in 2-B now."
But under it all, the weight was the same—eyes tightening around him, fixing him in place.
Kento's pencil snapped, both halves dropping to the desk with a sharp crack.
David grinned even wider, rocking back on his chair. "Man, you can't buy timing like that. Holloway, you're cursed lucky."
Priya smirked without looking up from her phone. "Relax. It's just rumors. But give it a week—half the school will have them married."
The teacher barked for silence again, chalk clapping hard against the board. But no one was listening anymore. The current had already shifted.
Every look in the room bent back toward him. Not just curiosity now. Some weighed, some judged, some searched too deeply.
Max pressed his hand flat to the desk, knuckles dragging once along the wood. Calm. Quiet. But the pressure stayed.
The whispers weren't whispers anymore. They were expectations.
And now, he was trapped in the middle of them.