Several hours passed in a slow, rhythmic crawl as the world transitioned from the chaotic energy of the afternoon into the eerie stillness of the evening.
The sun had finally retreated beneath the jagged teeth of the horizon, allowing the moon to ascend from its dark, oceanic depths.
It rose to illuminate the heavens and the earth alike, a pale, watchful eye in the sky.
Down below, the earth was far from dark.
Gleaming artificial lights flickered to life around the hotel complex, casting an electric glow that reached toward the stars, creating a shimmering haze of light pollution that masked the subtle beauty of the Milky Way.
The time of preparation was over.
Children and adults alike had abandoned their rooms and stations, drawn toward the grand, architectural marvel at the center of the resort.
They moved in a dense, flowing tide across the massive stone bridge that connected the main dormitory to the Prom Tower—a structure that seemed to glow in the midnight moon's reflection.
Every student carried a single, glowing lamp, the flames dancing behind glass panes like captured stars.
They moved with a slow, ritualistic grace, their silhouettes sharpened by the formal, elegant silks and tailored wools they wore, all crafted specifically for this final, defining event of their vacation week.
Far off to the side, those restricted from the festivities watched the procession with varying degrees of longing and detachment.
Margaret stood near the edge of the parking area, her hand still resting on the car where Wyne sat behind glass.
Wyne's father remained by the vehicle, his eyes scanning the horizon while the heavy presence of Koby's soldiers anchored the area in a state of silent, armed vigilance.
The closer the stream of students drew to the tower, the more the moon seemed to intensify its light, as if reacting to the collective anticipation below.
This was the legendary ritual established by Yuri Calypso herself: a mandate that in the absolute darkness of the night, there must be light—shining bright through the compounded misery of the earth.
It was a majestic, almost haunting way of offering a temporary sanctuary to those who had been weathered by the world's eternal suffering.
Finally, the great iron gates of the Prom Tower groaned open.
The "Limited Dance" was beginning.
The students' faces broke into wide, frantic smiles as they surged forward.
Teachers and chaperones struggled to maintain a semblance of order, their voices drowned out by the rustle of gowns and the rhythmic thumping of heels.
They tried to urge the crowd to ease their excitement, but it was futile; these teenagers were moving as if they were chasing the very last minutes of their lives.
For many, a night like this was a singular, unrepeatable spark in a lifetime of gray.
In the midst of the bustling crowd, standing near the midpoint of the bridge, Nomoro Ketatsuki leaned against the stone railing.
He was a stark contrast to the movement around him, a fixed point in a rushing river.
He wore a crisp, black formal suit that sat heavily on his broad shoulders, accented by a deep purple bowtie that matched the darkening sky.
His expression remained a disciplined mask of calm—emotionless, silent, and preternaturally patient.
He didn't seem to mind the hundreds of students rushing past him into the tower's warm embrace.
He was waiting.
As the other students bypassed him, he could hear the jagged edges of their whispers.
They spoke negatively behind his back, their words carrying on the wind like poison.
Some left him with mocking, lopsided smiles; others offered mischievous laughs or taunting glares.
To them, he looked utterly ridiculous in formal wear, like a wolf trying to pass as a lapdog.
Nomoro, however, lacked any pretense of fashion sense and cared even less for the opinions of the crowd.
He simply closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and let out a long, weary sigh.
He accepted the titles and the "Demon of Nine Years Ago" moniker with a nonchalant grace, acknowledging the cruel tongues of those who viewed him as nothing more than a dangerous, double-edged sword.
Suddenly, a sharp, playful poke landed on his right arm.
Nomoro opened his eyes and turned his head.
Trizha was standing beside him, her face lit up with a cheerful, radiant smile that seemed to outshine the lamps on the bridge.
"Feeling sleepy already, Devil?" Trizha asked teasingly, her voice bubbling with a light chuckle. "It's not even that late yet, you know. You can't crash before the first dance."
Nomoro's lips twitched into a faint smile at her remark. "I suppose you're right. I did put a surprising amount of effort into this outfit, even if I look like a funeral director."
Trizha let out a dramatic, playful gasp, her eyes widening. "Hah? You put in effort? Please! You look like you just picked the first black thing you found in a closet!"
She took a graceful step back, twirling once to reveal her own attire.
She stood there with an air of immense expectation, showcasing a majestic, milky-white gown.
The dress was an architectural masterpiece, featuring a delicate line of silk roses that spiraled diagonally across her torso, mimicking a vine in bloom.
"Well? What do you think?" Trizha shouted proudly, her hands on her hips. "Exactly! It's a masterpiece!"
Nomoro gave a soft, genuine giggle at her enthusiasm.
He looked her over, his gaze softening as he realized the dress fit her perfectly—not just her frame, but the renewed spirit she was carrying.
"Alright, alright," he conceded, his voice warm. "I admit it. You clearly put in more effort than I did. It's... beautiful, Trizha."
He extended his right hand toward her, his palm open, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world and its mocking whispers faded into the background.
"Now," he said softly, "take my hand, and let's get inside. The wind is picking up, and it's getting far too cold out here."
Trizha stared at his hand for a moment, her breath catching.
She looked at his fingers, then back up at his face, appearing momentarily speechless.
Then, abruptly, she spun around on her heel, crossed her arms tightly, and pouted with exaggerated drama.
"No," she said flatly.
Nomoro blinked, his hand still extended. "And why not?"
"Your hand is dirty," she claimed, her nose in the air.
"No, it isn't," he argued calmly.
"Yes, it is! Look at it!" she insisted, gesturing vaguely toward the air. "I bet you touched the bridge railing!"
"Not a chance," Nomoro countered. "I take personal hygiene very seriously. My hands are perfectly clean."
"Still no," she huffed.
Nomoro stared at the back of her head for a few seconds, his expression flattening.
Without another word, he turned around and began walking toward the tower entrance alone.
"Goodbye then," he called out over his shoulder. "Enjoy the bridge."
Trizha's jaw dropped.
She hadn't expected him to accept her rejection so easily.
Panicking at the thought of being left behind, she sprinted toward him and leaped recklessly.
She landed squarely on his back, her arms locking around his neck as she scrambled to climb higher.
Nomoro stumbled under the sudden weight, grunting as he shifted his stance to keep her from falling.
"How dare you just leave me alone like that?!" Trizha complained loudly, her voice echoing over the bridge.
She began to punch the top of his head with playful, frustrated thumps.
Nomoro let out a sigh of annoyance with no heat behind it, though he didn't drop her. "I didn't leave you. I simply provided you with the opportunity to follow me since you found my hand so repulsive."
"I was giving you a challenge!" Trizha shouted, hitting him a bit harder. "And you ended it with logic and a solution? You're absolutely no fun, Nomoro—"
Thack!
A piece of chalk, thrown with terrifying precision, caught Trizha square in the forehead.
She yelped in pain, wincing as she nearly fell off Nomoro's back.
"Hey! Quit making a scene, you two!" Teacher Myrcella shouted from a few yards away, her eyes narrowed in irritation.
"Yes! Y-yes, Ma'am!" Trizha stammered, rubbing her forehead frantically as she slid down Nomoro's back and stood beside him, trying to look dignified.
"Honestly," Myrcella muttered, shaking her head as she adjusted her spectacles. "Even with the other two missing, you're still undeniably the most annoying student I've ever had to supervise."
The teacher turned and vanished into the crowd of students entering the tower.
Although, she left with a smile on her face seeing both Trizha and Nomoro altogether.
It made her heart flutter.
"Ow... that hurt way more than the last time she hit me," Trizha muttered irritably, her fingers gingerly touching the red mark on her skin.
Nomoro turned to her, his expression returning to that soft, patient neutral.
He extended his hand one more time.
"Care to take my hand now? I promise, the chalk didn't touch it."
Trizha looked into his eyes, then down at his hand.
For a moment, her stubbornness flared, but she looked at the dark, cold water below the bridge and decided to let the recklessness fade.
She reached out and slipped her hand into his.
Finally, they began to walk side-by-side.
Their fingers intertwined naturally, their grips firm yet gentle.
As they crossed the threshold of the Prom Tower, Trizha stole a glance upward at Nomoro.
She noticed a tiny, subtle smile forming on his lips.
It confused her; she wondered if he was merely satisfied with himself for having such a beautiful partner on his arm.
But as she studied him, she realized that wasn't it.
Nomoro wasn't the type to care for vanity or the touch of a woman for the sake of ego.
If anything, that smile looked... proud.
It was a deep, quiet satisfaction that felt like it belonged to someone who had successfully finished a long, arduous journey.
Trizha decided to shrug it off.
She wasn't Margaret; she didn't have the analytical mind to deconstruct his soul.
She was just happy to be the one holding his hand.