7:00 AM — Narumi Residence, Nueva Citta del Pieve
The rising sun seeped through pale blue curtains, casting a filtered light across the pristine room of Jamie Kaye Lynn Shimizu Narumi. Twenty-one, statuesque, and devastatingly composed, Jamie sat in front of her minimalist white dresser, brushing her damp hair in slow, calculated strokes. Every motion was deliberate. Her gaze, cool and assessing, flicked toward the ticking clock. She was calm, but her eyes were always on schedule.
Jamie looked like someone who never once failed a presentation—sharp jawline, almond eyes that could slice glass, and a mouth that rarely curved into anything as inefficient as a smile. Dressed in a crisp white blouse and a perfectly pleated navy skirt, she gave the impression of a corporate heiress going undercover in a school uniform. She straightened her collar, sprayed her pulse points with imported perfume, and left her room with the elegance of a woman who always arrived prepared—even if she was running ten minutes late.
She descended the stairs quickly, her black leather loafers making no sound on the polished floor. The scent of garlic rice and questionable sausages wafted from the kitchen, cutting through the morning's cool air.
At the head of the dining table sat Conrad Narumi—ex-mayor, current chaos generator, and self-proclaimed "Man of the House" despite his uncanny resemblance to an overfed sidekick. He wore a robe that looked like it hadn't been washed since Jamie's middle school graduation and was sipping coffee like it owed him money.
Conrad's thinning hair stood up in defiance of gravity, and his eyes were fixed on the television playing a low-budget morning news show. He had the face of someone who'd lost a fight with sleep—and his belt.
Beside him, lounging with the casual grace of someone who hadn't opened a textbook in weeks, was Anthony Narumi, eighteen, who styled his hair like he was in a K-drama and lived like he was in an anime filler arc.
Opposite him, Stephanie Narumi, sixteen, sat curled in a fuzzy hoodie two sizes too big for her frame, sipping iced coffee through a bubble tea straw. Despite the sleepy eyes and messy twin braids, she radiated razor-sharp snark under a kawaii exterior. Her phone screen glowed as she scrolled without blinking.
"You woke up late," Conrad muttered without looking up. "Just in time. The car just got back from gassing up itself."
"Sure is. Tesla now knows self-driving," Anthony said, grinning as he stole a piece of longganisa from Stephanie's plate.
"Bona!" Conrad suddenly yelled toward the kitchen. "Where are their baons?!"
From the other room came the sound of faint music — something distinctly electronic and far too upbeat for this hour. Conrad's eyes narrowed like a man about to commit a misdemeanor.
"Bona," he growled, louder, "I told you no TikTok if you still have work! I'll TikTok your head!"
"Here's the baons, sir!" shouted Bona, stumbling in, slightly out of breath and waving three foil-wrapped packages. She wore an apron over bright neon leggings and still had a phone tucked into her waistband blasting a remix of "Cupid."
"I cooked it for the three of you," Conrad announced proudly, as if this act should be carved into stone.
Jamie arched an eyebrow. "Are we celebrating something? Solar eclipse? Second coming?"
"Wow, Dad. It's a miracle," Stephanie said dryly. "The spirit of laziness did not possess you this time."
"It's already 7:30!" Conrad barked, glancing at the wall clock. "Pack your things! I'll drive you to school!"
There was a rare moment of coordination as all three siblings stood at once, grabbing their bags and their baons.
"Alright, Dad!" they chorused—synchronized more by desperation than affection.
As the door slammed behind them and the car beeped to life in the driveway, Bona reentered with a mop and sighed, "I only danced for one chorus, sir..."
From inside the house, Conrad's voice boomed again: "I said mop the floor, not moonwalk on it!"
As the siblings filed out the front door, the morning sun lit up the quiet street of the Narumi subdivision—a neighborhood equal parts upper-middle class and low-maintenance drama.
Standing by the sidewalk was Herberto, a hunched, elderly man wearing khaki shorts two sizes too short and a tank top that had once been white. His ancient dachshund waddled beside him, dragging a leash that looked like it might be made from old telephone wire. Herberto was known for speaking only when not spoken to and appearing in places no one wanted him to be.
He paused mid-step, his cataract-glazed eyes narrowing as they focused on Anthony, who was adjusting his bangs in the car's side mirror.
"Hi, Anthony," Herberto croaked, smiling in that eerie, molasses-slow way that made every word sound like a warning.
Anthony flinched, then forced a grin. "Hello, Mr. Herberto!" he replied quickly, slamming the car door just as Conrad revved the engine.
As the Narumi family vehicle peeled out of the driveway, Herberto stood still, eyes tracking the car like a security camera slowly turning.
"Hmmmmm," he hummed softly, his tone somewhere between fondness and hunger.
Inside the car, as they rolled down the street past manicured lawns and confused roosters, Conrad gave the rearview mirror a glance and muttered, "I remember that old man attending a Mozart concert... in A minor."
Jamie blinked. "Dad, do you mean he listened to a Mozart recording?"
"No," Conrad said with full conviction. "I'm saying I saw him at the concert. 1791. Final tour. Guy was in the front row. Same sandals."
Stephanie groaned and put on her headphones.
"Dad," Anthony muttered, "Are you seriously implying Mr. Herberto is a... 200-year-old vampire?"
"I'm not saying he is," Conrad said, taking a sharp turn without signaling. "But if he offers you cookies, you say no."
-------
7:05 AM — Medrano Residence, Altavida Heights, Manila
The Medrano residence exuded silence, the kind engineered by expensive marble and the unspoken rules of a high-functioning, high-anxiety household. The morning light filtered through stained glass windows and hit the stairwell like a divine spotlight — and down it came Bernard Medrano, in half-buttoned uniform, hair still wet, phone clenched between his teeth as he buttoned his blazer on the move.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a college recruitment brochure — tall, sharp-jawed, and annoyingly photogenic — but beneath that charm was a boy sprinting against expectations. His uniform, freshly ironed, was now wrinkling as he stumbled into the dining room, still juggling his tie and phone.
The long oak table gleamed like it had never been touched. Ray Medrano, his father, sat at one end — a salt-and-pepper patrician in a crisp white barong, scanning financial news on a tablet while sipping black coffee like it was fuel for war. Across from him sat Bernadette Medrano, poised, flawless, and terrifying in a tailored pantsuit that looked more weapon than clothing.
Next to Bernard were his siblings: Bernardine, older by two years, dressed like a lifestyle vlogger in full glam for her 8 AM "wellness" shoot, and Brendan, twelve, buried in a tablet, mumbling facts about planetary gravity.
Bernard dropped into his chair, breath still shallow. "Sorry, Ma. I know I'm late."
"Anak," Bernadette said, slicing a croissant with surgical precision, "Isn't the student debate competition today?"
"Yes, Ma." He reached for toast, only to find it had already been taken by Bernardine, who gave him a smug shrug.
Bernadette dabbed the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin. "I expect nothing short of victory. No son of mine is a loser. Remember that, Bernard."
"Yes, Ma," Bernard muttered, chewing carefully, as if failure might be detected through his jaw tension.
"Ma, you're making him sound like a soldier," Bernardine chimed in, examining her nails like she'd already filed the paperwork for emotional detachment. "Maybe let him win on his own terms."
Ray snorted, barely audible. "Yeah, Bern. Let the boy breathe."
Bernadette turned her head—slowly. Like a statue waking up to issue divine punishment. "Don't start, Ray."
Ray stiffened, his coffee cup hovering mid-air.
Bernadette's voice dropped just enough to be sharp. "The last time you argued with me, you ended up humiliated by Conrad Narumi and his glorified errand boy, Johnny Dono."
Ray exhaled through his nose and quietly sipped his coffee, which suddenly tasted much more bitter.
Brendan looked up, blinking behind thick glasses. "Pa, what's an errand boy?"
Ray didn't respond. Just gestured vaguely in the air as if he might swat the question away.
"I heard his assistant speaks like Britney Spears," Bernardine added, giggling. "Can we get a PA that talks like Ariana Grande?"
"You can get a PA when you start paying for your own ring light," Bernadette snapped.
Outside, the horn of their armored SUV honked — once, then twice. Time, it seemed, had caught up.
"There's the car," Ray said, standing. "We'll go now."
Bernard finished the last of his toast and grabbed his satchel, the leather strap digging into his shoulder as he swung it over. "Thanks for breakfast, Ma."
Bernadette nodded without looking up. "Don't disappoint me."
That wasn't a wish. It was a command with the tone of generational trauma behind it.
Ray led his three kids to the waiting vehicle. As the driver opened the doors, Bernardine immediately took the passenger seat, claiming the prime selfie lighting. Brendan slid in next to Bernard, kicking his feet restlessly.
As Ray climbed into the front seat, Brendan piped up, "Pa, how come you and Ma are always like that?"
Ray paused, adjusted the mirror, and started the engine.
"Brendan," he said, calm but distant. "Nadine. Bernard."
All three looked up.
"The key to a happy marriage," Ray said, eyes on the road, "is knowing when to shut up."
Bernardine rolled her eyes. Brendan blinked twice. Bernard stared out the window, clutching his bag tighter than before.
No one said another word the rest of the drive.
-----9:00 AM — University of Manila, Main Campus Gate
The morning sun was already blinding as two vehicles pulled into the university's administrative parking garage—first the white Narumi SUV, sputtering slightly as it scraped over a speed bump, and right behind it, the polished black Medrano SUV, gliding in like it had been engineered for silent intimidation.
Jamie, seated between Anthony and Stephanie in the back seat, glanced at her watch. "I'm gonna be late," she said, eyes narrowing. Her voice was calm, but the grip on her bag strap was tight enough to snap leather.
"Relax, anak," Conrad said from the driver's seat, killing the engine with a dramatic sigh. "You've got five minutes and the blood of a tiger."
"That's not even a real saying," Stephanie muttered, already halfway out the door.
Conrad leaned out his window and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Good luck on the debate!" he bellowed. "Show them the Narumi method!"
From the other vehicle, parked almost bumper to bumper beside them, Ray Medrano rolled down his own window.
"Crush your opponents in the debate, Bernard!" he called, his voice cool but loud enough to reach across the garage.
Both patriarchs now found themselves staring directly at each other.
Conrad's eyes locked onto Ray's like heat-seeking missiles. His grin vanished, replaced by an expression caught somewhere between sneer and smirk. Ray, still in his immaculate barong, didn't flinch. He merely tilted his head slightly and narrowed his gaze, scanning Conrad from head to foot with visible disdain—as though calculating the exact number of calories in Conrad's entire life.
Neither said a word. They just stared—two generals on the verge of launching another cold war. The air between the SUVs practically crackled with ego and passive-aggressive testosterone.
Inside the garage, the silence between them was more deafening than any argument.
Behind their tinted windows, Jamie and Bernard both noticed it.
Jamie raised an eyebrow at her father. Bernard, already halfway out of the car, let out a low sigh and shook his head.
"Are they glaring again?" Anthony asked, stuffing gum into his mouth.
"Like it's a boxing match," Stephanie muttered, not even glancing back. "What are they gonna do, slap-fight in slow motion?"
Bernardine rolled her eyes as she stepped onto the pavement in her glossy heels. "Why can't they just shake hands like normal people?"
"Because," Brendan chimed in solemnly, "they're from opposing bloodlines."
Bernard gave his younger brother a brief sideways look. "Okay, maybe no more anime for a week."
As the six students filed toward the central administration building—Jamie on one side, Bernard on the other—the two cars remained parked, both engines now off. Inside, Conrad and Ray stayed locked in a slow blink-off, as if waiting for the other to flinch.
Neither did.
---
University of Manila, Student Auditorium – 9:18 AM
The main auditorium of the University of Manila buzzed like a beehive wired to a speaker. Hundreds of students crammed into the seats, waving banners, holding up phones, and whispering predictions. Some had popcorn. Others wore homemade shirts that read "Vote Jamie or Cry Later" or "Burn with Bern".
In the front row sat faculty members looking either bored or terrified. Mrs. Barbarela Buncalan Jackson, the event's faculty adviser, wore a neck brace and a bright pink pantsuit, and held a whistle she wasn't afraid to use. Beside her, Principal Shepherd sipped cold coffee through a straw and nodded as if he understood anything at all.
The side doors swung open. Jamie Narumi entered first—shoulders back, expression neutral, stride unhurried. Her navy-blue blazer was perfectly pressed, her university badge straight, and her steps measured. She didn't glance left or right, didn't wave, didn't blink. She just walked to her podium like a CEO headed to a shareholder revolt.
Across the stage, the other doors burst open as Bernard Medrano strode in, late by about fifteen seconds, shirt collar slightly askew, blazer flapping. He ran a hand through his hair, then grinned like he owned the place. Students from the engineering block whooped as he jogged the last few steps and gave a sloppy salute to the crowd.
"Cutting it close, Mr. Medrano," Mrs. Jackson said into her mic with no real warmth.
"Ma'am, I believe in drama," Bernard said, flashing a grin.
Jamie arched an eyebrow.
The moderators gave a few opening statements about student integrity, civic engagement, and the history of the university council. Nobody listened.
Finally, Mrs. Jackson blew her whistle. "Opening statements. Miss Narumi, you first."
Jamie stepped forward.
"My name is Jamie Kaye Lynn Shimizu Narumi," she said crisply, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "And I'm not here to promise miracles. I'm here to fix what's broken. The current council lacks structure, accountability, and a functioning mental health program. We're a university, not a comedy club. If you want efficiency, clarity, and action—vote Narumi."
Silence. Then applause from the law and business majors. Arnie groaned. Thea grinned proudly.
Mrs. Jackson gave Bernard a nod.
Bernard stepped up, then leaned both hands on the podium. "I'm Bernard Medrano. And unlike some people, I actually like comedy. Life's already hard enough—we don't need a student council that acts like an Excel spreadsheet. We need people. Real ones. I'm here to make your life smoother, cheaper, and way more fun."
Roars from the design, athletics, and IT students. The nerds loved him. The debaters winced.
Jamie didn't look at him, but her lips tightened.
The first round began—budget planning.
Jamie presented a neat pie chart and a printed copy for the moderators. "Under the current council, funds for student clubs are misallocated. I propose a transparent model, with quarterly reporting and equal distribution based on merit and performance."
Applause. Murmurs of approval. Her laser pointer didn't even tremble.
Bernard stepped up, looked at the chart, and tilted his head. "That's cute. Really. But half the clubs here survive on creativity, not performance. If we start giving money based on popularity, you'll kill half the soul of this university."
Gasps. Murmurs. Jamie finally turned her head.
"I said merit, not popularity," she replied, voice cold. "Reading comprehension matters."
"Don't worry," Bernard said, turning to the crowd. "I'll explain it slower for people like me who didn't take prep school in Switzerland."
Laughter. Applause. Thea clapped twice. Arnie punched the air.
Jamie's gaze didn't shift. But her knuckles whitened.
Round two—student mental health services.
Jamie cited statistics, referenced national standards, proposed a partnership with local clinics. Bernard listened, head cocked, eyebrow raised.
When it was his turn, he said, "That's all great. But what about in between? When you're broke, tired, and panicking at 2 AM? Not everything is solved by referrals and forms. Sometimes you need an actual human being who listens."
Students cheered again. He was killing on relatability. Jamie's supporters looked worried.
Backstage, Sophia leaned forward. "He's winging it."
Kael sipped his coffee, eyes on Jamie. "So is she. She just makes it look like she isn't."
Final round—student body engagement.
Jamie delivered a tight, clinical proposal for online participation metrics, multilingual pamphlets, and quarterly open forums. She even had a QR code ready for live survey access.
Bernard looked at the code, walked up, and scanned it onstage. His phone made a loud ding.
"I just voted for her plan to be less boring," he said.
The auditorium exploded with laughter. Even Mrs. Jackson nearly cracked a smile.
Jamie raised her mic. "You know, Mr. Medrano, charisma and leadership aren't the same thing."
"And you'd know," Bernard shot back. "You've got the leadership. Still waiting on the charisma."
That one stung.
The crowd's energy surged. Phones were up. TikToks were being edited in real time. Hashtags began trending in the university subreddit.
Finally, Mrs. Jackson blew her whistle again. "That's enough. Closing remarks will be postponed. Audience, thank you for—"
Too late. The two candidates were already standing face to face in the middle of the stage, not touching, not blinking. Every camera caught the moment. Jamie's stare was calm ice. Bernard's grin was defiant fire.
They didn't speak. They didn't have to.
The crowd felt the tension—electrical, theatrical, undeniable. Not just rivals. Not just opponents. Something else now hung between them.
Enemies, yes.
But not just that.
---
Narumi Residence, 8:45 PM
The Narumi home was alive with noise and the smell of instant noodles, garlic chips, and beer that hadn't been chilled enough. Conrad had planted himself in his recliner like a victorious emperor, shirt half-unbuttoned, slippers kicked off, and the TV volume set to max as he replayed Jamie's debate footage on loop.
"Did you see that?!" he bellowed, pointing with a barbecue stick at the screen where Jamie calmly shut down Bernard's statistics with a three-line citation. "She decapitated that boy! That was like—like—like if Sun Tzu had a daughter and enrolled her in La Salle!"
In the dining room, Johnny Dono leaned on the fridge, chewing loudly. "She was like the lawyer from Suits, but less smiley."
"Exactly!" Conrad nodded so hard he spilled beer on his lap and didn't even care. "That's my girl. She got that killer instinct—from me, clearly."
"From Kako," said Stephanie, not looking up from her tablet.
"Maybe from Mama," Anthony added.
Conrad waved his chopsticks like a judge. "Objection! I have sharp instincts. I once caught a thief using only my gut and a garden hose."
"Dad," Jamie said as she entered, dropping her bag near the stairs, "please don't tell people that story again. He turned out to be your reflection in a window."
Conrad paused, then shrugged. "Still, you were amazing, anak. You made the Medranos look like...budget YouTubers."
Jamie allowed a very small smile—one she didn't even know was there.
"Thank you, Dad."
Conrad beamed like he'd just won the lottery. "That's my girl."
Medrano Residence, 9:10 PM
At the Medrano house, the atmosphere was the polar opposite. Bernard sat alone in the formal dining room, blazer off, shirt untucked, tie undone like a noose. He was scrolling through social media clips of the debate, watching the way Jamie outmaneuvered him in the final round.
Bernadette entered the room with heels that clicked like gunfire on the tile. She was already mid-rant.
"You let her bait you. You made jokes. Jokes, Bernard. On stage. Like it was a karaoke contest."
Bernard didn't look up. "I stood my ground."
"You stumbled. You smiled too much. You acted like a contestant. She acted like a leader."
Across the room, Ray peeked in and decided he'd rather die thirsty than ask for water right now. He retreated wordlessly.
Bernard stood, finally meeting his mother's gaze. "Maybe people want someone real. Not rehearsed."
"That may get you applause," Bernadette said, voice cold, "but it won't get you power."
Bernard's jaw clenched. "Is that what I am to you? A power piece?"
"You're a Medrano," she replied. "Start acting like one."
She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Bernard staring after her, alone in the dim glow of the laptop screen, where Jamie's face was paused mid-sentence, eyes blazing with confidence.
He exhaled slowly.
Game on.