Chapter 18 - The Green Table and the Distortion

The classical music department's review chamber had never felt this rigid before. The long, gleaming mahogany table, the row of panelist chairs occupied by stern-faced senior professors, and the distinct smell of old archival paper all combined to create the kind of suffocating atmosphere that usually stripped every last ounce of nerve from a final-year student. Even the light seemed to fall differently in that room—flat and clinical, the kind that showed every flaw in a performance before a single note had even been played. At the far end of the room, a microphone stood upright, waiting for the outcome of the most controversial collaboration in the faculty's history.

Michi stood straight beside the podium, wearing a formal blazer pressed into flawless, sharp lines. But beneath an exterior that still reflected the perfect model student everyone expected, an entirely different rhythm pulsed through her chest—no longer the fear of failure, but a burning anticipation she could barely contain.

A few steps behind her stood Rimba. He wore no formal blazer or academic attire befitting an official review, staying loyal instead to his dark flannel shirt and worn-out denim jeans, hands tucked casually into his pockets, entirely unbothered by the sharp stares of senior professors who looked at him as though he were some alien creature that had wandered in from another dimension entirely.

"Miss Arunika and Mister Rimba," Professor Hendra's deep voice broke the silence, holding the final score sheet with an unreadable expression. "This collaboration proposal of yours... on paper, is a blatant violation of every convention this conservatory holds sacred. Fusing the structure of a Chopin sonata with alternative-rock distortion under a classical dean's office is... a bold move. Or, to put it more accurately, reckless."

Michi held her breath. Her throat had gone suddenly dry. Every ounce of hard work, every long night spent in that basement studio, every wall of inner defense that had slowly crumbled apart—all of it was being drawn into a single decisive line that day.

"Please play the recording," Professor Hendra continued briefly, tapping his finger against the table.

The moment the play button was pressed, the precise, cold, carefully measured chime of classical piano immediately flowed through the room. The professors behind the long table began to furrow their brows, visibly preparing to launch sharp criticism at an experiment they clearly considered a violation of tradition. But right at bar twenty-five, that gentle melody was suddenly struck by the entrance of sharp, heavy, mercilessly pounding electric guitar distortion.

The sound filled the sterile review chamber, sweeping away every trace of stiffness and replacing it with a raw, honest explosion of emotion. Along the panel of judges, several professors looked visibly stunned. Professor Hendra himself removed his reading glasses, staring straight at the speaker with his brows drawn sharply together, listening as those contrasting tones somehow embraced one another instead of clashing, creating a new harmony that captivated everyone in the room who heard it.

When the final note rang out softly and finally faded into silence, the room stayed quiet for several seconds that felt like they might stretch on forever.

Professor Hendra let out a long breath, closing the score folder in front of him. "Were you two deliberately trying to give the dean's office a heart attack?" he asked, though the corner of the old professor's mouth twitched into a thin smile, one rarely ever seen on his face. "This arrangement... exceeded every expectation. You both pass, with a special note: keep this wildness alive for the final examination stage."

The weight that had pressed down on Michi's chest for years evaporated instantly, without a trace. She let out a long breath, closing her eyes for a moment to settle the overwhelming wave of relief washing through her.

The moment they stepped out of the review chamber and made their way down the quiet faculty corridor, the laugh Michi had been holding back finally slipped free, unguarded.

"We made it," Michi whispered, turning to Rimba with a plain, unmistakable glint of victory shining in her eyes.

Rimba stopped walking, letting other students pass by around them without a second thought. He studied Michi closely, then broke into a wide smile—the most sincere, most disarming smile he'd ever shown her. Without a single thought for their standing in the campus's formal atmosphere, Rimba reached out, taking hold of Michi's still slightly trembling fingers and gripping them tightly behind the shade of a corridor pillar.

"Told you, Arunika," Rimba murmured low, close to her ear, his voice full of a warm promise that made the world outside that corridor disappear entirely. His lips grazed briefly, warmly, against her knuckles before he let the words settle between them. "Our music is a lot stronger than their rules."

Michi stared down at their joined hands hidden behind the dim corridor pillar, then lifted her gaze. There was no trace left of her usual guarded defenses, none of that cold, marble-smooth expression she always kept ready. All that remained was the curve of a small, genuine smile—a rare sight that made the dark warmth in Rimba's eyes soften even further.

"Save your victory speech for the main stage, Maestro," Michi whispered, fighting with everything she had to keep her voice from shaking.

Underneath that carefully composed, flat expression, though, her entire nervous system had short-circuited the moment that warm press of his lips landed against her knuckles. Her heart pounded violently, thrashing against her ribs as if trying to leap straight out of her chest, while her cheeks burned with a heat she had no way of stopping.

Rimba smiled crookedly—as if he could read, with perfect clarity, the storm of chaos she was desperately trying to hide behind her cool mask—before their joined hands slowly slipped apart as the footsteps of other students began approaching from the far end of the hallway.

Even so, the lingering warmth from that touch stayed on her skin for a long time afterward, proof enough that Michi's last line of defense now existed in name only.