Outwardly, Horikita Manabu remained as impassive as ever—his words less praise than clinical assessment. But those who knew him understood: this was high praise, by his standards.
No one knew his sister's temperament better than he did.
Her coldness wasn't arrogance—just social ineptitude wrapped in stubborn pride.
She fancied herself exceptional, yet couldn't hold a basic conversation—her interpersonal skills were elementary-school level at best.
He recalled boarding the school bus three years ago, greeted by grinning children shouting "Big brother!" without hesitation.
Could Horikita Suzune do even that?
Even with him, her own blood, she stiffened like a soldier before a general.
Every action, every word, was measured against his benchmark.
Their reunions always began the same way—
"Brother, I'm not who I used to be."
Hearing it now made his temple throb.
Where did I go wrong with her?
He'd doted on her as a child.
Taken her out for meals—BBQ, hotpot—never letting her lift a finger, always grilling her meat, mixing her sauces.
Yet somehow, she'd twisted this into blind mimicry.
If she'd copied his strengths—his ability to converse effortlessly with any class, his quiet support for struggling peers—he'd have praised her.
But no.
She'd latched onto the least essential traits: his reserve, his stoicism, stripping away all context until she became a caricature.
Worst were her glances—"Brother, am I doing it right?"—brimming with misplaced pride.
That idiotic earnestness made his fingers itch to flick her forehead.
He had no patience for "endearing stupidity."
Stupidity was stupidity, regardless of packaging.
Beneath her striking resemblance to him lay a fool who missed the point entirely.
Her imitation felt less like flattery than mockery.
(Not that she had the wit for deliberate satire—she was just genuinely dense.)
Yet it still grated.
This was the curse of elder brothers: no one likes a cheap knockoff of themselves.
Their reunion last month—after two years—had nearly broken his restraint.
Seeing her unchanged, right down to the long black hair he'd once suggested, almost made him snap.
Then Shimizu Akira appeared.
His sister's reaction to the boy was... notable.
More intriguing was Shimizu's own demeanor—the same blunt disdain Manabu himself felt.
Then came the surveillance scheme, netting 12 million points.
Manabu's assessment of Shimizu skyrocketed: intellect and emotional IQ, both exceptional.
At first, he'd drawn parallels to Nagumo Miyabi—both radiated a sharpness beyond their years.
But closer scrutiny revealed stark differences.
Nagumo's brilliance was a drawn blade, all calculated aggression.
Shimizu's was a cotton-wrapped stone—unassuming until it struck with precision.
Where Nagumo would've flaunted his victory, Shimizu had left no loose ends, operating entirely through burner accounts.
This first-year understood the power of subtlety—a rarity in D-Class.
Today, seeing Suzune with Shimizu, Manabu noted real growth.
She'd listed her flaws—three, unprompted—a milestone for someone who'd once conflated pride with competence.
D-Class, it seemed, had been a necessary humiliation.
Without it, he shuddered to imagine her at graduation—a prideful recluse, unfit for society.
"Shimizu." Manabu set down his tea, shifting gears. "Your second matter?"
Last time, it was the surveillance scheme. What now?
"Similar in nature." Shimizu's tone was calm.
"Oh?" Manabu's interest piqued.
But first—
"Suzune, leave us." His voice brooked no argument. "This is private."
Her progress pleased him, but Shimizu's business took precedence.
"...Understood."
Not a second's hesitation.
At the door, she glanced back—her brother and Shimizu, heads inclined, an unlikely camaraderie.
She'd never defy Manabu, but as the door closed, she shot Shimizu a glare sharp enough to flay skin.
Let him decipher that on his own.