The heavy iron doors of the Prom Tower groaned shut, sealing out the damp night air.
Within a minute, the vast lobby was flooded with the vibrant colors of silk, satin, and lace as the students of JT International School spilled into the grand hall.
Trizha and Nomoro stood at the threshold, their eyes sweeping across the architectural marvel.
The interior was a cathedral of celebration.
Polished marble floors mirrored the golden glow of crystal chandeliers, and the sheer scale of the ballroom provided a cavernous space for the festivities.
Flanking the dance floor were long, velvet-draped tables serving as refreshment stations, where crystal bowls of punch shimmered like liquid jewels.
At the far end of the hall, a majestic twin staircase spiraled upward like the DNA of the building itself, leading to the higher galleries.
"Look at the height of this place," Trizha whispered, her head tilted back so far she nearly lost her balance.
As the first floor reached its capacity, chaperones in formal black vests began ushering groups toward the upper levels.
One teacher, clutching a clipboard, shouted above the din of excited chatter, explaining that the tower consisted of three primary floors.
The rooftop, he noted with a stern finger pointed upward, remained strictly off-limits—a restricted sanctuary reserved for hotel staff and the Founder herself.
While the majority of their peers scrambled for the best vantage points on the second and third balconies, Trizha and Nomoro moved at a slower pace, letting the initial wave of chaos wash past them.
"Wow, the windows here sure are massive…" Trizha said, her voice full of genuine amazement.
She stepped toward the outer wall, where floor-to-ceiling glass panes offered a panoramic view of the dark, glistening grounds.
She pressed a hand against the cool surface, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of the scale.
"Nomoro, how much do you think a single one of these costs? Imagine the bill if someone accidentally tripped through one."
Nomoro stepped up beside her, leaning in to inspect the frame. "Thousands, probably? Maybe more."
"Thousands?" Trizha scoffed, looking at him sideways. "I'd be surprised if they didn't cost a fortune—like, hundreds of thousands."
Nomoro let out a low whistle, but as he looked closer, he saw the merit in her guess.
The glass wasn't just clear; it was etched with microscopic, frost-like patterns that caught the light in a way that suggested high-end craftsmanship.
The metal fittings were brushed titanium, seamless and cold.
"You might be right," he admitted, his voice quiet. "The level of detail is almost obsessive. Though, part of me finds it hard to believe anyone would sink that much capital into something people just look through."
"Heh, yeah. To most people, it's just glass and a bunch of metal," Trizha said, a bit of her old bravado returning to her smile.
She turned away from the view, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Anyway, wanna go check out the second floor? I overheard some seniors saying there's a gallery up there with statues modeled after old Mafia and Yakuza bosses. Kind of a weird theme for a Prom, right?"
"Sure," Nomoro replied, adjusting his purple bowtie. "I'm not exactly a connoisseur of organized crime history, but the craftsmanship sounds interesting enough to kill some time."
Trizha giggled, a bright, melodic sound. "Yey!"
She reached out and snatched Nomoro's wrist, her fingers warm against his skin, and began to drag him toward the grand staircase.
However, she only made it three steps before her nose twitched.
An intoxicating aroma—something savory, buttery, and spicy—drifted through the air from a side hall.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Her stomach gave a traitorous growl, and she turned back to Nomoro with a sheepishly awkward smile.
"Hehe… change of plans. I'm actually a bit hungry," she admitted, her face flushing slightly. "The statues can wait. The food cannot."
Nomoro shrugged, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I understand. I can smell the kitchen from here too. Besides, I could use a little 'observation training' on whatever the chefs are putting out."
They abandoned the stairs and followed the scent until they reached the "Culinaria"—a high-end food court integrated into the tower's wing.
It was styled like a boutique bistro, and a line of hungry students was already forming at the mahogany bar.
Inside the open kitchen, two figures worked with frantic, high-octane energy.
The first chef, a woman in her thirties named Yumi, was a spectacle of multitasking.
Her navy blue hair was pulled into a tight, practical ponytail, but the most striking detail was the baby strapped to her back in a professional carrier.
Despite the infant, Yumi moved like a whirlwind, her knives blurring as she chopped vegetables with surgical precision.
Her face was a mask of cold, emotionless focus, a stark contrast to the sizzling chaos of her pans.
The second chef, Elizel, appeared to be the same age with a similar hairstyle, though her hair was a warmer brown.
She wore thick-rimmed glasses and seemed to be running a business seminar and a kitchen simultaneously.
Though, mostly a seminar.
"Check this out, folks!" Elizel shouted, flipping a pancake with one hand and holding up a strange, glowing gadget with the other.
"Broken air fryer? Fridge lost its chill? Don't you worry! Introducing the Hyper-Fixer! It repairs anything that runs on a pulse of juice! Act now, and I'll throw in a side of hash browns!"
The students in line watched in awe as she promoted her inventions while plating gourmet dishes with professional flair.
"Hey, Yumi!" Elizel barked over her shoulder, not breaking her stride. "Cook faster, will ya? My promotions are moving units faster than your stove!"
Yumi didn't even look up.
Her knuckles were white as she gripped a sauté pan. "Be quiet, Elizel. I am cooking at maximum efficiency. One wrong move and I might harm the baby. Stop treating the kitchen like a late-night infomercial."
Her tone was flat, but the underlying frustration was evident.
Trizha watched the duo, fascinated by the hotel's penchant for hiring eccentric geniuses.
"They're certainly flashy," she remarked.
"They are," Nomoro agreed, his eyes tracking Yumi's precise movements. "They remind me of friendly rivals who share the same blood."
Trizha turned to him, blinking in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean? Are they related?"
"Beats me," Nomoro said with a casual shrug, offering no further explanation.
"Ugh! Can you please stop talking in riddles?" Trizha grumbled, though she couldn't hide her grin.
Suddenly, a booming voice amplified by high-wattage speakers shattered the ambient noise of the room, vibrating in the very floorboards.
"WHAT'S UP, CHILDREN OF JT INTERNATIONAL!"
The crowd gasped and turned toward the DJ booth, which was perched on a landing halfway up the grand staircase.
A young man with shocking blonde hair stood behind a massive array of turntables and neon lights.
"Are ya having fun yet?!" the DJ shouted, his voice crackling with manic energy. "Me too, ya bullocks! Since the lovely Yuri Calypso is currently indisposed, allow me to introduce myself. I am DJ CJ Flomtro—your personal DJ of the year! And I am at your service!"
The ballroom erupted.
Screams of delight echoed from the rafters as the first heavy beat of a bass-heavy track dropped.
The atmosphere, already electric, turned into a riot of movement as hundreds—perhaps thousands—of students began to dance.
Nomoro felt the shift in energy.
He looked at Trizha, intending to lead her into the fray, and tightened his grip on her hand.
But as he looked at her, his grin faded.
Trizha was frozen.
Her eyes were wide, darting from face to face in the crowd.
She looked small, vulnerable, and profoundly uncomfortable.
Even after her growth, the weight of the social spotlight was a crushing pressure she hadn't yet learned to carry.
She looked like she wanted to disappear.
"Hey, Trizha," Nomoro said softly.
She jumped slightly, her head snapping toward him.
In an instant, she tried to pull the mask back on—a bright, forced smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Hm? What is it? The music is great, right?"
Nomoro didn't let her hide.
He let go of her hand for a split second, only to extend it again, palm up, in the universal gesture of an invitation.
"For the third time," he said, his voice a gentle anchor amidst the noise. "Care to take my hand?"
Trizha stared at his palm.
This wasn't a challenge, and it wasn't a joke.
It was an exit strategy from her own fear.
She felt the tension in her chest snap, replaced by a genuine, warm surge of happiness.
"You really didn't need to repeat yourself," she teased, but her voice was thick with emotion.
She reached out and placed her hand in his, her fingers interlacing with his.
This time, there were no dramatic excuses or reckless diversions.
She let him lead her into the heart of the crowd, and for the first time in her life, she didn't care who was watching.
Together, they began to dance.
With all their might.