The student council room on the third floor was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the old wooden table. Afternoon light came in slanted and gold, catching dust particles like fireflies.
Akira arrived at 15:57. He placed his laptop, a black Moleskine notebook, and a single mechanical pencil in precise alignment. Opened a new document. Typed the date, "Cultural Festival Main Stage – Session 1", and saved it immediately.
At 16:01 the door opened.
Sora entered backward, kicking it shut with her heel while juggling a bulging canvas tote, a half-drunk melon soda, and her phone. She dumped everything on the table with zero ceremony. A pack of Pocky slid out and rolled toward Akira's side.
He pushed it back one centimeter with the tip of his pencil.
"You're late," he said.
"Two minutes. That's rounding error." She dropped into the chair opposite him and cracked open the soda. "So. Hit me with your master plan, oh great ranking overlord."
Akira turned his laptop so the screen faced her. A clean bullet-point list filled the document.
Theme interpretation: Structured vignettes showing chaos resolving into harmony
Format: Theatrical performance with live musical transitions
Core elements: Spoken narration + modular scenes + minimalist staging
Runtime goal: 18–22 minutes
Proposed music: Live piano + select recorded tracks (classical remixes)
Sora read in silence for almost thirty seconds—a personal record.
Then she leaned back and laughed once, loud and bright.
Akira's fingers paused on the trackpad.
"You want to do... poetry with piano?" she asked.
"Narration with underscoring."
"Same difference." She pulled a folded sheet from her back pocket and smoothed it on the table. It was covered in multicolored Sharpie: doodled stages, arrows, crossed-out ideas, a stick figure doing a backflip. "This is what actually works. High energy. Mixed media. Audience participation. Taiko drums into trap beat. Crowd-voted scene order. Maybe a short flashmob section that spills into the aisles."
Akira scanned the page. His left temple throbbed once.
"That violates at least four safety and noise regulations."
"Rules can be bent when you're ranked one and two." She tapped a doodle of fireworks. "People remember spectacle. They fall asleep during polite piano."
"Spectacle without substance is forgotten in a week. Substance lasts."
"Substance without energy is ignored on day one."
They stared at each other across the table.
Akira closed the laptop lid halfway. "We need a compromise structure."
Sora raised one eyebrow. "You said the c-word. I'm framing this moment."
"I select narrative framework and musical backbone. You select performance energy and interactive components. Mutual approval required for every major decision."
"Veto power?"
"Reasoned veto only."
She considered it, chewing on the end of her pen. "Deal."
She extended her hand across the table.
Akira looked at it—small, chipped blue nail polish, faint ink smudge on the thumb—then shook once. Professional. Brief.
Her grip was firm. Warm. He let go first.
They worked for the next hour in near-silence punctuated by short, sharp exchanges.
He struck down indoor confetti cannons.
She struck down twenty-minute scene transitions.
He accepted one contemporary dance piece if choreography was rehearsed.
She accepted narration if it wasn't delivered like a funeral eulogy.
By 17:20 they had a seven-page shared document and a color-coded legend neither would admit looked organized.
Sora stretched, vertebrae popping. "Same time tomorrow?"
"16:00. Sharp."
"Bring less perfectionism."
"Bring fewer explosions."
She grinned—quick, dangerous—and left.
Akira sat alone for another minute, staring at the hand that had shaken hers.
It still felt warm.
He opened the document again.
In the margin, in red ink, she had drawn a tiny cartoon: an ice cube wearing glasses, frowning at a firecracker.
He deleted it.
Then recovered it from the trash.
Just in case.