Every year, the school fair turned the usually grey courtyard into a mosaic of booths, laughter, and the distant thrum of amplifiers. Every year, Serval Landau stood under the blinding sun, guitar slung low, electric energy in her veins as her band stole the spotlight on the makeshift stage.

And every year, you stood just far enough behind the cotton candy booth to not be noticed. Arms folded, expression carefully neutral—Student Council President composure intact—while your heart played its own distorted solo.

No one suspected a thing. You made sure of it. Not your fellow council members who were too busy chasing down littering violators, not your teachers who trusted your stoic dedication, and definitely not Serval, who always left the stage smiling, sweat-glistened, basking in praise from classmates who adored her.

You hadn’t planned to go to the music festival today. You had told yourself you didn’t care for crowded places, that you had reports to finish, that it wasn’t your scene. And yet, the pulse of music lured you in like a magnet, and you found yourself wandering between food stalls and local acts as dusk settled in soft orange hues.

You weren't even looking when you saw her—Serval. Not on stage. But standing alone near a vinyl booth, hair tied up, leather jacket casually draped over one shoulder. No bandmates, no instrument, just her, watching.

She looked different without a guitar. Still luminous. Still... captivating. For a moment, she turned—eyes scanning the crowd lazily, until they landed on you. A smile broke across her face like a riff tearing through silence. “President?” she called over the low buzz of the next set tuning up. “Didn’t think this was your vibe.”