Kamuro watched the exchange like a strategist observing the first skirmish of a war. Hiyori's approach had been direct, her questions layered with subtext. Sakamoto's responses were a masterclass in deflection—offering just enough to seem transparent while revealing nothing of substance. Field investigation. Understanding the rules. The answer was so candid it felt like a trap.
As Hiyori turned away, her retreat was not one of defeat, but of tactical withdrawal. She had planted a seed, gathered a data point.
The moment Hiyori cleared the line, Kamuro moved. Her earlier hesitation had cost her the initiative; she would not forfeit the engagement entirely. She crossed the floor with quick, deliberate steps, the murmur of the café fading into a background hum. Her focus narrowed to the tall, composed figure behind the counter.
Sakamoto's eyes shifted to her as she approached. There was no flicker of surprise, only the same calm acknowledgment.
"Kamuro-san," he said, his voice a placid neutral. "Good afternoon."
He remembered her. Of course he did. The convenience store, the hovering sit—she was a recurring variable in his data set.
"Black coffee," Kamuro stated, her voice firmer than she intended. She didn't glance at the menu. Her mission was not caffeine. She leaned forward slightly, her purple eyes locking onto his. "And an answer."
A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head invited her to continue.
"Why are you really here?" she pressed, bypassing all pretense. "A Class A elite working a cashier shift isn't about 'field research' for a school project. What are you looking for?"
Sakamoto's expression remained unchanged, but the atmosphere around him seemed to grow still, as if the air itself was waiting for his response. He completed her order on the screen with a tap before meeting her gaze fully.
"Data is neutral, Kamuro-san," he said, his tone conversational, yet each word precise. "The value lies in its interpretation. This café, its patrons, their choices, their interactions… it's a microcosm. Understanding it is understanding the larger ecosystem." He paused, his eyes behind the lenses holding hers. "For instance, your presence here, asking this question, is itself a valuable data point. It tells me interest from Class A is… multifaceted."
He had turned her probe back on her, reframing her pursuit as a symptom for his study. It was infuriatingly elegant.
"And what does your data say about Ryuuen's interest?" The name left her lips before she could filter it, a deliberate escalation.
For the first time, something shifted in Sakamoto's demeanor. Not alarm, but a subtle, focused intensity, like a lens sharpening its focus. "Ryuuen Kakeru," he repeated, as if tasting the name. "His actions generate high-amplitude signals. Easier to track, but often noisy. The underlying pattern is what matters."
He offered no threat, no concern. Only analysis. It was more disquieting than any bluster.
"Your coffee will be ready shortly," he said, his tone signaling the end of the interview as clearly as a closed door. "Please wait at your table."
Dismissed. Just as Hiyori had been. He controlled the rhythm, the duration, the depth of every interaction.
Kamuro held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for a crack in the porcelain composure. There was none. She gave a short, tight nod and turned away, the taste of unfinished business sharp on her tongue.
As she walked back to the table, her mind raced. Multifaceted interest. High-amplitude signals. He knew. He knew about Ryuuen, and by extension, he likely suspected Sakayanagi's involvement. He wasn't a passive target; he was a cartographer, calmly mapping the vectors of pressure arrayed against him.
Back at the table, she did not sit. Hiyori was already there, sipping her black coffee, her expression unreadable. Their eyes met.
"He's not what either of you think," Kamuro said quietly, the words more for herself than for her rival.
Hiyori took a slow sip, the steam curling before her violet eyes. "No," she agreed, her voice a soft murmur. "He is precisely what he shows himself to be. A researcher. The question is… what is his hypothesis?"
The game had not simplified with contact. It had deepened. Sakamoto wasn't just a piece on the board. He was watching the board itself, calculating every move before it was even made. And two very different girls, from two opposing camps, had just become acutely aware that they were part of his experiment.
Kamuro stood before the counter, her expression carefully schooled into neutrality. "One latte, please," she said, the request simpler than the storm of questions swirling within her.
Sakamoto's gaze settled on her, a calm, acknowledging weight. "One latte, confirmed," he replied, his fingers moving across the screen with practiced ease. The transaction seemed complete.
Then his eyes lifted, meeting hers squarely. "Kamuro-san. A moment."
He remembered her name. The realization sent a tiny, unwelcome thrill through her, a warmth that colored her cheeks before she could suppress it. It was followed swiftly by a pang of frustration. In her hesitation, Shiina Hiyori had already seized the initiative, asked the pointed questions. What tactical inquiry did she have left? A mundane follow-up about employment?
"Sakamoto-kun," she began, grasping for a thread. "This job... it's only the third day. How did you secure it so quickly? Do you have a connection here?"
Sakamoto's fingers stilled above the screen. He didn't answer immediately, his deep gaze seeming to measure the intent behind her query. The silence stretched, thin and taut.
"Kamuro-san," he finally said, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic register that felt meant for her alone. "In this school—" A deliberate pause. His fingertip tapped the screen, a soft beep punctuating his words. "—points can purchase anything."
Then he turned his attention back to the terminal, a clear dismissal.
Kamuro stood rooted. Points. Of course. He hadn't needed connections; he had used the system's own currency to buy his way into a position of observation. It was a brute-force application of logic, so obvious it felt profound. The simplicity of it was a silent rebuke to her search for hidden networks or favors.
Murmuring a thanks that felt hollow, she retreated to her seat, a sense of anticlimax and sharpening curiosity warring inside her.
The coffees arrived, delivered by another staff member. Hiyori's black coffee sat dark and profound before her; Kamuro's latte, its surface a canvas of creamy foam, promised a gentler experience.
Hiyori lifted her cup. The first sip was a revelation of contrasts—the piercing, fundamental bitterness of the brew, immediately tempered by the granular sweetness she had requested. Truth, like the bitter base of black coffee. His words were there in the taste. The sweetness was her own choice, an adornment over the unvarnished reality. She pondered the choice he had presented, and the one she had made.
Kamuro cradled her latte, the sweet aroma a comforting veil. But the warmth of the drink could not reach the cool, analytical chill that had settled in her core. Points can purchase anything. The statement was a key, but to what lock? What was the cost of the data he was buying?
Her gaze lifted, inevitably, and found Hiyori's across the small table. The other girl met her look, violet eyes unreadable over the rim of her cup. No words passed between them. None were needed.
The shared silence was their new common ground. They had both approached the enigma. They had both received answers that were not answers, but deeper questions. They had both been gently, firmly, and masterfully dismissed.
Their original mission—to track, to assess a target for their respective masters—had been subtly subverted. They were no longer just observers. They had become participants, data points in an experiment whose parameters were set by the very subject of their scrutiny.
Sakamoto remained at his post by the register, a figure of quiet authority bathed in the soft light of the café. He was no longer just a boy from Class A, or a waiter, or a cashier. In that moment, under the watchful eyes of two rivals forced into silent communion, he was the calm center of a gathering storm—an architect studying the first tremors of his own design.
P@treon Rene_chan