Following a high-level negotiation drama that nearly escalated into an action-movie style pursuit across the Balai Sudirman lobby—which was ultimately resolved only after Mira stubbornly whipped out her real KBD identity card and a screenshot of the archived digital invitation email from three days prior with the help of a kindhearted security guard—Mira finally succeeded in planting her mismatched feet inside the main ballroom.

The moment she stepped past the massive glass doors trimmed with gold carvings, a wave of sixteen-degree-Celsius air-conditioning froze over her skin, instantly chilling the mixture of sweat and thick foundation that had been melting down her face. Soft orchestral wedding music drifted through the air, blending with the low buzz of hundreds of guests chatting and gossiping beneath the glittering luxury of giant crystal chandeliers.

Mira stood frozen in a corner, right next to a massive marble-wrapped pillar. She smoothed down the waist of her baby pink tulle gown, which felt increasingly loose from her frantic dash across the lobby, and instinctively patted her bangs, which were still standing rigidly upright like a pair of Super Saiyan antennae.

Narrowing her eyes through the caked-on powder on her cheeks, Mira directed her laser focus straight to the far end of the room: the main bridal stage.

There stood her unforgettable ex in all his glory. Satya was clad in a sharp charcoal-gray tailored wedding suit, flashing a wide, charismatic smile in every direction as if he were a lead K-drama actor who had just clinched a major television award. To his right stood his bride—Vanesha—a stunning woman with a statuesque silhouette, flawless glowing skin, and a wedding gown encrusted with thousands of Swarovski crystals that caught the spotlights. Vanesha stood gracefully, looking every bit like a newly crowned Miss Universe stepping down from a celestial throne.

Mira glanced down for a fraction of a second, catching her own reflection in the glass surface of a floral arrangement vase on a nearby reception table.

Reflected in that glass stood an eternal college student whose face was a smear of melted makeup, crowned with thick falcon-shaped brows, sporting a storm-proof Super Saiyan updo, wearing an oversized baby pink dress that resembled a failed, bloated cream puff, and standing lopsided because her heel was broken back at home.

"Well... purely from a cosmic and global aesthetic standpoint, I am officially losing this solar system's caste war," Mira muttered darkly to herself, letting out an internal cynical snort. "Satya is marching up to the altar with a pan-galactic goddess, while I've waltzed into this venue looking like a genetic mutation between a circus clown and a desert sandstorm victim."

Though a brief sting of insecurity pinched her heart, Mira’s hardcore pride reflexively fought back against despair. She forced her spine stiff—ignoring the heavy burden of her concrete updo—and crossed her arms over her chest with a mock-casual swagger.

"Relax, Mira. Physical beauty is fleeting, but the power of overthinking and burning resentment is eternal," Mira coached herself, flashing the most lethal smile she could manage beneath her crimson lipstick.

Right at the exact second Mira was drafting her mental strategy to maneuver toward the buffet line and soothe her wounded pride, an entirely uninvited biological disaster struck her core.

Since early morning, Mira hadn't managed to ingest a single grain of rice. She had been far too busy hyperventilating over the invitation, arguing with Bu Tati at the beauty salon, and dealing with her snapping stiletto. Driven by an accumulated cocktail of stress, panic, and the freezing venue air conditioning, Mira’s stomach suddenly launched a full-scale, aggressive labor strike.

Krrrrr-rumble... krrrrr-rumble!

A thunderous growl erupted from deep within Mira’s stomach, slicing cleanly through the quiet chatter surrounding her pillar. The sound was so colossal it resembled an old diesel tractor engine forced to climb a steep rural hill.

Instantly, several sharply suited gentlemen and ladies draped in luxurious kebayas standing near the pillar whipped their heads around in unison toward Mira. Their eyes bulged in absolute shock, assuming the roar had been caused by a short-circuit in the venue's sound system or a local horror movie sound effect.

Mira froze dead in her tracks. Her powder-and-sweat-caked face instantly flushed a brilliant, searing crimson, rivaling her clownish blush. She offered a stiff, awkward smile to the gentleman to her right while gently patting her own stomach, as if communicating via body language: "Don't mind me, sir, there's just an underground heavy-metal death-core concert playing inside my digestive tract right now."

The gentleman furrowed his brow in deep revulsion, shuddering visibly before dragging his wife hurriedly away from Mira as though she were a walking, ticking time bomb.

"I am so dead... you useless stomach, why couldn't you cooperate for once in your life during a critical national emergency?" Mira scolded herself internally, biting down hard on her lower lip while feeling whatever remained of her dignity and sanity cave in flat against the floorboards.

Trapped between a burning hunger tearing at her stomach and the lingering, suspicious stares of nearby guests, Mira realized one absolute truth: if she didn't make a break for the buffet line to grab some food immediately, she wasn't just going to get tossed out as a wedding crasher—she was going to pass out from starvation right there on the hallowed red carpets of Balai Sudirman.