Time seemed to dilate, stretching the moment of disaster into a slow, terrible arc. The coffee hung in the air, a dark parabola of imminent mess and humiliation. Yamauchi's triumphant grin vanished, replaced by a mask of dumbstruck horror. Ike and Sudō could only watch, their warnings now useless.
In that suspended second, the figure in black—who had never fully turned away—moved.
It was not a frantic lunge, but a shift of pure, economical precision. Sakamoto's left foot slid half a step back, his body flowing into a lower, centered stance. Without looking, his right hand flicked out, fingers brushing the edge of the abandoned tray on the table.
Tap.
A sound almost too soft to hear.
The tray spun to life, leaping from the table's edge. It sliced through the air, not to catch, but to intercept. Its rising rim met the falling cup not with a clatter, but with a seamless, glancing contact. The cup's momentum was arrested, translated, and redirected. It settled into the center of the spinning tray as if guided by magnetism, the coffee sloshing violently within but contained.
His left hand rose, palm hovering over the tray. The furious liquid, obeying physics alone a moment before, suddenly stilled. Its surface smoothed to a placid, mirror-like finish in an instant. No spill. No stain. Only perfect, impossible control.
The entire sequence—from spill to salvation—lasted less than two heartbeats. It was fluid, silent, and utterly unreal.
A collective gasp tore through the café's quiet, followed by a wave of hushed, astonished murmurs.
"Did you see that?!"
"How…?"
"He never even looked!"
"That tray… it was like it had a mind of its own!"
Yamauchi, Ike, and Sudō sat frozen, their brains struggling to process what their eyes had just witnessed. The physics-defying grace, the preternatural calm—it belonged in an action film, not a school café.
"H-hey…" Yamauchi stammered, pointing a shaking finger. "What kind of waiter is he?"
Ike blinked rapidly, recognition dawning through the shock. "Wait… I know him. That's Sakamoto. From Class A."
"Sakamoto?!" Sudō's voice was a gruff whisper. "The 'hovering sit' guy?"
"Yeah! That's him!" Ike's words tumbled out in an excited rush. "But why is an elite from Class A working here?"
The whispers around them crystallized, carrying the same stunned recognition.
"It's Sakamoto!"
"Class A's prodigy…"
"So the rumors are true?"
"What is he even doing in an apron?"
Yamauchi's face burned. He had dismissed those rumors as hype, the product of gullible fans inflating a show-off. But this… this was irrefutable. A performance of such effortless skill that it hollowed out his earlier bravado, leaving only the ash of embarrassment. His "taste" and "strength" had nearly caused a humiliating accident. Sakamoto's silent, masterful correction was a lesson in stark contrast—a display of real capability that required no audience, no proclamation.
It just was.
And in the face of that, Yamauchi's entire performance felt cheap and desperately, painfully small.
That icy wave of humiliation crashed over Yamauchi—and then receded, leaving behind only the stubborn bedrock of his ego. He was, after all, Yamauchi Haruki. His confidence was not a mere attitude, but a fortress.
He shoved back his chair and stood up sharply, puffing out his chest in a show of recovered composure. "Ahem! Sakamoto-kun, was it?" he announced, his voice too loud for the now-hushed room. "Thanks for the assist just now! But just so you know, I had it totally under control. A little spill? Wouldn't have even fazed me!"
His declaration hung in the air, unanswered and utterly ignored. Every eye in the café—including Ike's and Sudō's—remained locked on Sakamoto. Their expressions held only awe, curiosity, and a dawning understanding that they had just witnessed something bordering on the supernatural. Yamauchi's words sank without a trace, as meaningless as a pebble dropped into a deep well.
Sakamoto gave no indication he had even heard. His face was a placid mask, untouched by pride or irritation. With the same effortless grace, he placed the tray—and the perfectly salvaged, ripple-less coffee—back onto the table before Yamauchi.
"Please be careful," he said, his voice a calm, clear note in the silence. "Hot liquids are prone to spill. Agitated minds are harder to settle."
The words, simple yet unnervingly pointed, seemed to cast a quieting spell over the entire café. His gaze then swept lightly over the surrounding students, his tone taking on a gentle, proprietary authority. "Your coffee is served, everyone. Please enjoy it. The lunch break is brief; let's not allow noise to shorten it further."
It was not a request, but a subtle command. The lingering murmurs ceased almost immediately. Patrons returned to their drinks and books, though stolen glances still flickered toward the enigmatic waiter.
Across the room, seated at a reluctantly shared table by the window, Shiina Hiyori and Kamuro Masumi observed it all. They had entered the café in unison the moment the crisis was averted, compelled into proximity by the lack of seats.
In the depths of Hiyori's violet eyes, calculations quietly spiraled. That was not reflex. That was prediction. Total environmental control. Ryūen-sama's interest is not misplaced. He is a variable that resists all known equations.
Kamuro's knuckles were white where her hands clenched in her lap. The "hovering sit," the convenience store, now this… Each encounter peeled back a layer, only to reveal something more inscrutable beneath. Why was a creature like this serving coffee? Was it for points, for observation, or for some game only he understood the rules to? The certainty of Sakayanagi's and Ryūen's plans suddenly felt fragile against the reality of his quiet, effortless capability.
Their eyes met briefly—a flash of shared, unspoken comprehension—before darting back to the subject of their scrutiny.
Sakamoto appeared oblivious to their focused attention. He simply adjusted the line of his black apron with a fluid motion, a final, tidy gesture. Then, without a backward glance at the stunned Class D trio or the whispering room, he turned and walked with measured steps toward the kitchen door.
The thrilling intervention was already behind him. It was nothing more than a minor fluctuation in the data stream of his day, already logged, analyzed, and filed away.