The air in the café remained charged, a low hum of awe clinging to the scent of roasted beans. At the table by the window, the three boys from Class D navigated the aftermath in their own familiar way.
Yamauchi, cheeks still flushed, snatched up his rescued coffee as if to conquer it. A large, defiant gulp was met with instant regret. "Gah—! Hot! It's boiling!"
Ike and Sudō burst into raucous laughter. "Idiot! You think it cooled down while it was flying through the air?" Sudō wheezed, slapping his thigh.
"Shut up! I was just… checking the quality!" Yamauchi sputtered, wiping his mouth. His bravado was a brittle shell, but he clung to it fiercely. "If I hadn't been distracted…"
"If you hadn't been distracted, we'd be mopping the floor with our jackets," Ike retorted, blowing carefully on his own cup. He shot a pained look at the menu. "We never should've listened to you. Most expensive coffee on the menu… my points are crying."
Their bickering was a comfortable, noisy blanket, smothering their lingering shock and embarrassment. Through teasing and complaints, the extraordinary event was slowly downgraded in their minds to just another Yamauchi blunder, its miraculous correction attributed to the distant, almost alien competence of "that Class A guy."
Across the room, a different kind of silence prevailed.
At the small, shared table, Shiina Hiyori and Kamuro Masumi sat in a vacuum of quiet tension. With Sakamoto gone, their focus—once locked on the same extraordinary target—collided and settled upon each other.
Seconds stretched, thick with unspoken assessment.
Hiyori's violet gaze was placid, a still lake reflecting nothing. Her fingers traced the strap of her bag, where a novel waited—a prop that now felt unnecessary. Her mind, however, was in rapid, silent analysis. Her posture is tense, observant. Not a casual patron. She followed him with intent. The reaction to his intervention was not mere surprise; it was recognition. She is also investigating. Purpose: unknown. Affiliation: unknown. Threat level: indeterminate.
Kamuro's sharp eyes held a storm of calculation. This silver-haired girl was too composed, her stillness unnerving. She wasn't here to drink, or to read. She was here to watch. And what had she seen? Kamuro's own mission for Ryūen felt suddenly less clandestine, more like a race where she hadn't known there was another runner. Who is she? Class? Is she working alone, or for someone? Sakayanagi? Or another player entirely?
The silent stand-off was a delicate dance of mutual suspicion and strategic hesitation. To speak was to reveal interest; to accuse was to expose oneself. A precarious balance held, where acknowledgment was more dangerous than shared, silent vigilance.
It was Kamuro who finally broke the stalemate, opting for a controlled, semi-transparent offensive. She lifted her chin, her voice carefully neutral, yet each word a deliberate probe.
"Hello," she said, her purple eyes unwavering. "I am Kamuro Masumi. Class 1-A."
The introduction was a gambit. It offered a piece of information—her class, her name—to see what, if anything, would be offered in return. It framed her presence within the plausible context of checking on a classmate, while her sharp gaze challenged Hiyori to do the same. The ball was now in the other girl's court, and the next move would begin to map the invisible lines of a new, unexpected confrontation.
Shiina Hiyori's violet eyes lifted, meeting Kamuro's sharp gaze. A response was required.
The other party had taken the initiative. Class A. Sakamoto-kun's classmate. A logical question formed in Hiyori's mind: If she could observe him freely in class, why pursue him here? The action implied a need beyond casual observation—a special dynamic, or a separate agenda.
Hiyori offered a slight, graceful nod. Her voice was soft, yet carried clearly. "Shiina Hiyori. Class 1-C."
Class C?
Kamuro's pupils contracted, a micro-expression of shock she instantly suppressed. Ryuuen Kakeru's class. The class that had just allied with Sakayanagi Arisu in a pact to dismantle Class A and target Sakamoto specifically. Suspicion coiled tight in her chest.
Was this girl Ryuuen's operative? Her eyes swept over Hiyori's serene, almost fragile composure. It didn't fit Ryuuen's brutal, direct style. He wouldn't trust a pawn who looked so… detached. Unless her role was something else entirely—a observer, a listener, a different kind of weapon.
Hiyori, in turn, parsed the flicker in Kamuro's eyes. The wariness was palpable. It was directed not just at Class C's notorious leader, but at her personally. The silence that descended between them was no longer merely awkward; it was charged, a silent battlefield of deduction.
It was then that movement from the counter severed their tense standoff.
Sakamoto had returned. The waiter's apron was gone, replaced by a cashier's uniform—a dark vest over a crisp white shirt, a burgundy tie knotted precisely at his throat. The transformation was subtle yet striking; it framed him not as staff, but as an overseer, calm and unobtrusively authoritative. He took his position behind the register, his gaze performing a languid, sweeping assessment of the café.
Two pairs of eyes snapped toward him with magnetic force.
Kamuro's heart gave a traitorous thud. He's at the register. Now. This is the chance. But what was the pretext? A simple coffee order felt transparent, foolish. Would he remember her from the convenience store? Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt, a silent war between mission and sudden, inexplicable hesitation playing out within her.
While Kamuro wrestled with her inertia, Hiyori acted.
In one fluid, unhurried motion, the silver-haired girl rose from her seat. There was no glance back, no visible calculation—just a serene, purposeful stride directly toward the counter. Her objective was unambiguous.
A jolt, sharp and hot, shot through Kamuro. It was a blend of sheer surprise and something akin to chagrin. She had been caught flat-footed, her moment of internal debate exploited by the enemy's decisive advance. That calm walk felt like a declaration: You observe. I engage.
Kamuro watched, frozen, as Hiyori approached Sakamoto's back. She saw him sense the presence, the slight shift of his shoulders as he began to turn. His eyes, behind those lenses, would soon meet Hiyori's unflinching purple gaze.
The first move of their unspoken game had been taken, and Kamuro had not even left her seat.
P@treon Rene_chan for advanced chapters, go enjoy yourself