WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

4 - Anonymous No More

HANA'S POV

For exactly three full seconds, I simply stare at his outstretched hand as though it's personally offended me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a mature voice reminds me that refusing to shake someone's hand over a disagreement involving gravity is probably not the best first impression to make in a committee I'm supposed to be working with until Friday. Unfortunately, maturity and I have never been particularly close acquaintances. 

His hand remains suspended between us with infuriating patience, his expression carrying that same lazy confidence that makes me want to either roll my eyes or throw a chair, and judging by the expectant silence beginning to settle over the nearest students, everyone is now waiting to see whether I possess basic social skills. I do. I simply resent having to prove it to him. 

With the enthusiasm of someone signing a legally binding contract against her will, I place my hand in his, offering one brisk shake before immediately pulling away.

"Hana," I reply flatly, even though he already knows that. "But apparently you've already memorized my name. That's... concerning." I offer him the sweetest smile I can manufacture, the kind that's just sharp enough around the edges to qualify as a warning instead of kindness. "Should I be flattered, or do you usually commit the identities of people you refuse to catch to memory?" 

A tiny snort escapes someone standing behind him, quickly disguised as a cough. Niki doesn't even glance back. "I read your name tag," He says simply, sliding one hand back into his pocket. "It's not exactly detective work."

"...Right."

"You seem disappointed."

"I promise you," I answer with a smile so painfully polite it almost hurts my face, "nothing about this interaction has disappointed me. It has exceeded expectations."

"The expectations weren't very high."

Before I can decide whether responding would improve or worsen my rapidly declining emotional stability, someone claps loudly at the front of the room, successfully pulling everyone's attention away from what had begun to resemble a verbal tennis match disguised as introductions. 

A girl with a bright yellow volunteer badge and a clipboard nearly the size of my torso stands at the front beside a projector screen covered in color-coded schedules, smiling with the exhausted optimism of someone who has clearly been organizing this festival for weeks and is one minor inconvenience away from disappearing into the mountains forever. 

Around me, conversations gradually dissolve into silence as students settle into chairs or lean against tables, papers rustling while everyone searches for copies of the schedule being passed around. I quietly slip into the nearest empty seat, only realizing after I've sat down that the chair directly beside mine is occupied. By him. Of course it is. Naturally, out of every available chair in this entire room, fate had apparently decided comedy was more important than my blood pressure.

"Good afternoon, everyone," The committee leader begins, clicking to the first slide projected against the whiteboard. "For those of you joining us today, welcome to what will probably be the busiest four days of your semester. If you're expecting an easy volunteer experience where you hand out balloons for an hour and collect a participation certificate afterward, I encourage you to lower your expectations immediately." 

Laughter ripples across the room, though hers barely changes. 

"This festival welcomes over three thousand visitors every year, including parents, alumni, local businesses, and neighboring schools. That means every booth, every performance, every hallway, every classroom, every electrical cable, every emergency exit, and every last schedule has to function perfectly." She pauses, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. "If something goes wrong on Friday, chances are one of us forgot to do something between now and then."