19. Reunion

The Invitation Realized, July 2010

I stay up late again over the next few nights, letting myself fall into everyday routines—training, errands, answering emails, and helping Hanna around the house. Whenever the condo settles into its quiet rhythm, I end up back at the laptop. Serbia fills my screen with maps, attractions, photos of the Petrovaradin Fortress, and EXIT lineup schedules, half research and half distraction.

I’m not trying to find meaning in any of it. I just want a sense of where I’m going. The fortress looks incredible from what I can see—stone terraces overlooking the Danube, vast courtyards worn smooth by centuries, and tunnels that feel older than anything in Ann Arbor. The photos show it rising like a crown above the river, ancient walls catching the late summer light. I scroll through images of the ramparts and imagine what it’ll feel like to stand up there with the bass shaking through the stone beneath my feet.

Mostly, I’m looking forward to seeing Willow and Asuka again and spending a few days where Michigan isn’t my whole world. The NCAA clearance took a weight off my shoulders, but the pressure left something behind—a kind of mental static I haven’t shaken yet. Serbia won’t erase it, but it’ll give me room to breathe without waiting for the next headline to land.

EXIT is massive from what I can tell—more than twenty stages spread across the old fortress, over six hundred performers rotating through four nights, and crowds pushing past two hundred thousand people. The main stage alone lists Placebo, Missy Elliott, Faith No More, and The Chemical Brothers. Down in the Dance Arena, the lineup reads like a Europe-wide roll call: David Guetta, Tiësto, Carl Cox, and half the DJ world stacked into one stone moat. It’s loud and chaotic in a way that might actually help right now. The kind of sensory overload that doesn’t leave much room for the noise already in my head.

I find myself clicking through festival photos from previous years—crowds packed shoulder to shoulder on the ramparts, laser lights cutting through the night sky, people dancing on cobblestones that have been there since the Habsburgs. There’s something about the scale of it that appeals to me. Two hundred thousand strangers who don’t care about hockey stats or NCAA compliance or whatever tabloid garbage is circulating this week. Just music and movement and the kind of anonymity you can’t find in Ann Arbor.

I close the laptop and stretch. The condo is quiet, and Hanna’s asleep down the hall. Through the balcony windows, the campus lights glow soft against the summer dark. With only a few days to go, this trip feels less like an escape and more like a reset. A chance to reconnect with the people who matter most without the weight of everything else pressing down.

I should’ve made this happen sooner. That’s the thought that sticks as I head to bed. Willow and Asuka have been patient, and I’ve been buried in my own head for too long. Serbia won’t fix anything, but it’ll give us time together away from the noise. That’s enough to make the trip feel right.

Belgrade Airport, July 3, 2010

The air inside the jet bridge hits warm and stale after the long flight. Rika walks ahead of me, backpack slung over one shoulder, posture steady. She looks the same as she did ten hours ago at the gate—sharp, focused, showing no fatigue at all. A uniformed airport liaison approaches quickly.

“Mr. Stewart? Miss Sato? Your escort is waiting.”

Escort?

Rika doesn’t move. She shifts one step in front of me, blocking my path with a posture that looks casual only if you don’t know her. Her hand slips toward her phone, already dialing before the liaison can speak again.

“Name of the escort,” she says, flat and direct.

“Dušan Radanović,” he replies.

She finishes the call in Japanese—short, efficient, her voice low enough that only I catch the tone—a simple confirmation request to our team in Japan. Thirty seconds later, she receives the reply, glances at the screen, then gives the liaison a curt nod. Only then does she allow us to be led down the quiet corridor away from the crowd.

A tall man waits at the end, broad-shouldered and composed like he’s lived a lifetime in uniform. Dark hair cut short and utilitarian. Eyes that take in everything without appearing to move.

“Dušan Radanović,” he says, shaking my hand with firm, controlled pressure. “Security Intelligence Agency. Welcome to Serbia.”

His English is clean and confident. The kind of fluency that comes from professional necessity rather than academic study.

“We’ll bypass the main arrivals area,” he says. “Your entry was arranged through diplomatic channels.”

I process that for a moment. London and the Queen’s Private Secretary had moved pieces I didn’t even know were on the board. We pass through controlled-access doors without stopping. No passport lines, no airport chaos. Within minutes, we’re outside.

The heat hits immediately—thirty-seven degrees centigrade, heavy and unfamiliar after Canadian and Michigan summers. The air feels thick, almost chewy, pressing against my skin like a physical weight. A black sedan with diplomatic plates waits at the curb, trunk already open, another security officer behind the wheel.

“Your accommodations are prepared in Novi Sad,” Dušan says as we approach the vehicle. “Hotel Leopold I, inside the Petrovaradin Fortress and in the heart of the EXIT festivities. Hard to secure during EXIT, but manageable.”

Rika studies him openly now, reassessing with the information she verified. She gives the faintest nod—barely perceptible unless you know what to look for. I climb into the car, thinking that whatever this trip becomes, it’s already unfolding with more structure than I expected.

The drive north is calm. Long stretches of pristine highway pass by, farm fields rolling out on both sides, massive warehouses dotting the landscape at irregular intervals. Something about the simplicity settles my nerves. The flatness reminds me of the prairies west of Dryden, though the heat and the unfamiliar signage keep me grounded in the reality that I’m halfway around the world.

Dušan keeps the drive practical, outlining the basics—where festival traffic bottlenecks, which entrances get crowded, which routes stay open for emergencies. He explains it calmly, the way someone does when they’re used to coordinating teams, but he directs the real tactical details to Rika. She listens without interrupting, filing it away. I get the simplified version—enough to understand, not enough to step in the way.

“You will find Serbians direct,” he says, eyes meeting mine briefly in the rearview mirror. “We don’t waste words.”

Rika glances at me. “You’ll appreciate that.”

Probably.

The sedan moves smoothly through light traffic. Air conditioning hums against the exterior heat. I watch the countryside shift gradually, agricultural flatness giving way to gentle hills, small villages appearing and disappearing behind us. Dušan doesn’t fill the silence with unnecessary conversation. Neither does Rika. I appreciate both of them for it.

When we cross the bridge into Novi Sad, the fortress appears above the river—layered stone, sweeping walls, a structure that looks carved into the hillside itself. It rises like a stone crown above the Danube, ancient and imposing. The kind of architecture that makes you feel small in a way that isn’t threatening. It feels steady just looking at it. Permanent. The opposite of everything that’s been churning in my life for the past year.

Hotel Leopold I sits near the top, tucked inside the inner walls. The approach winds through narrow streets that feel centuries old, cobblestones under the tires creating a rhythmic thump that vibrates through the sedan’s frame. From the balcony of my suite, I can see the Danube drifting past, wide and slow, catching the afternoon light. Below, the EXIT stages take shape across the fortress grounds. Workers move like a coordinated team, testing lights and adjusting platforms, their movements precise and purposeful.

“Tomorrow,” Dušan says, standing beside me on the balcony, “you won’t hear anything but music.”

He’s not joking. The room is cool behind us, the stone around the windows thick enough to swallow sound. After months of noise and pressure—the Olympics, the media circus, the constant weight of being watched—the quiet feels like a reset button. Like someone finally turned down the volume on everything.

I take a breath. Let it out slow.

This might actually work.

Evening Terrace Reunion

A soft knock hits the door. Rika moves instantly, answering it while keeping herself between me and the entry. I can’t see the hall from where I stand, only the subtle shift in her posture when she confirms it’s them. She steps aside, and Willow and Asuka walk in.

For a moment, none of us moves. Seven months of silence and distance compress into a few feet of open space, and we just look at one another. Not suspicious—more like we’re trying to make sense of who we’ve each become in the time apart, measuring posture and expression without meaning to. Caution and hope sit between us in a way no one voices.

Willow’s eyes find mine first. Fatigue lingers there, softened by something warmer that feels almost familiar. Asuka’s gaze is steadier, harder to read. Her shoulders carry the controlled tension she uses when emotion pushes at the edges. She hides it well, but I still catch her tells: the faint hitch in her breath, the brief curl of her left hand before she relaxes it. She’s worried and trying not to show it. Rika remains near the door, silent, observing the room with the same precision she uses in a fight, giving us space without losing awareness of anything.

We meet in the middle of the room. Willow reaches me first.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft but clear.

Hearing her again nearly pulls something loose inside me. She steps into a hug—familiar arms sliding around my back—and I hold her without making it complicated, just steady and present. Her warmth settles through me in a way I hadn’t expected, and I realize how much I missed the stability she brings.

Asuka approaches next, slower, more deliberate. She stops a step away, her posture immaculate, her emotions compressed into a mask she rarely lets slip.

“Asuka,” I say quietly.

She bows her head slightly. “Michael.”

Her voice stays even, but her eyes give her away. Relief, frustration, regret—layered so tightly they blur together. Seven months of silence echo in that tiny hesitation before she looks up again. We stand there a few seconds longer than anyone intends, and no one speaks first. The three of us are careful with each other now in a way we never had to be before.

Willow exhales and moves toward the terrace railing. “This view is insane. You can see the river, the city, some of the stages.”

I take a breath. “There’s something I need to talk to you both about.”

They turn back toward me. The air tightens—not hostile, just bracing. I explain everything Kiyomi and Bill have pieced together, focusing on the timing, the insider details, the things only someone close could have shared.

“I don’t have proof,” I say, “but some of what was leaked ... someone close had to be involved. I think it was Elizabeth helping. She always wanted to prove herself to her father and her brothers. Some of the attacks were too personal—in hindsight, this feels exactly like something she would support quietly.”

Willow goes still. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t breathe, her hand lifting toward her mouth before falling again, fingers trembling once. Realization hits her in sharp waves, like each part of the truth arrives too quickly to prepare for. Guilt shadows her expression before she speaks.