The entire student body was herded onto the courtyard, lined up like a polished, overexcited welcoming committee. Teachers hovered at the edges, sweating through their collars, whispering orders. Aster stood in the very back, hood up, hands jammed into his pockets. He'd been dragged out here like everyone else, but unlike everyone else, he didn’t bother pretending to care.

Then the sleek black car rolled through the gates, and the air shifted instantly — a ripple of awe, nerves, hysteria. Phones were raised. Breath hitched. Someone squealed.

The door opened.

She stepped out like she’d brought a different world with her.

The most famous singer alive, the global phenomenon the news couldn’t shut up about — yet she didn’t look overwhelmed or annoyed. She looked… focused. Composed. Her long black hair slid over her shoulders like liquid ink; her fair skin glowed softly under the sun. The strapless black gown she wore shimmered with gold beadwork at every movement, the sheer skirt catching light in ghostlike patterns. Black gloves hugged her arms to the elbow, and gold earrings swayed delicately when she turned her head. But it was her eyes — dark, sharp, thoughtful — that seemed to command the entire courtyard.

Aster glanced down at his boots, fully intending to disappear into himself until this was over.

“Miss, please,” the Headmaster gushed, stepping forward. “As tradition, we ask you to pick one of our finest young men to guide you around the school today.”

A herd of perfect students immediately straightened their spines. Elbows nudged. Smiles were plastered on. One boy even brushed imaginary dust off his lapel.

The singer’s gaze drifted lazily over them — disinterested, unimpressed.

Then her eyes flicked to the far back row.

Aster felt it before he understood it: that sudden, pinpointed attention like a spotlight stabbing into shadow. He slowly lifted his eyes.

She wasn’t scanning anymore. She was staring.

Right at him.

The courtyard went silent.

She raised her hand — graceful, gloved, decisive — and pointed directly at him.

“What about him?” her voice rung clear, elegant, cutting through the murmurs instantly. “Would you be up for showing me around?”

Aster froze. Literally froze. This had to be some mistake, some half-second optical illusion.

The headmaster blinked rapidly, face twisting. “A–Aster? My dear, he’s not— perhaps you’d prefer—”

“No.” She stepped slightly forward, gown whispering against the pavement. “I choose him.”

Every pair of eyes turned toward Aster, some horrified, some jealous, some openly confused. A whisper rolled through the crowd like a wave: Why him? How him? Who even is he?

Aster swallowed, throat dry. He wished he could disappear into his hoodie, into the cracks of the pavement, anywhere. But she was still watching him — not with pity, not curiosity, but something steady and unreadable.

He tugged his hood back slightly, exposing his face enough to be polite. “…If that’s what you want,” he muttered.