The first week of school dissolved into the past tense, its initial disorientation settling into a new, sharper rhythm under the unspoken law of merit. For Class 1-A, the adjustment was most profound.
Sakamoto's presence had undergone a subtle alchemy. No longer a disruptive anomaly, he had become a feature of the landscape—a quiet, elegant constant. The class had acclimated to the young man who occupied his space with such precise economy, whose movements were measured and whose silence was profound. The initial shock had been metabolized into a form of casual awe.
Yet, his brilliance did not dim with familiarity; it crystallized. It was present in the flawless logic of a class discussion contribution, in the exacting precision of an answer to a professor's oblique question. When the first week's quiz results were posted, his name sat at the apex, a string of perfect scores that were less an achievement and more a statement of natural law. He commanded not through effort, but through the sheer, effortless fact of his capability.
Katsuragi Kohei observed from his seat, the rigid lines of his ambition softening into a pragmatic acceptance. Competing for leadership against a force of nature was illogical. The optimal path for Class A's glory was not to challenge Sakamoto, but to orbit him. He quietly began recalibrating his role from rival to chief lieutenant, a pillar meant to support the central spire.
Even Totsuka Yahiko's reflexive skepticism had eroded. Confronted with the relentless consistency of Sakamoto's excellence and his unassuming demeanor, derision felt petty. What remained was a grudging, then genuine, respect. The goalpost had moved; Sakamoto was no longer a peer to be critiqued, but a standard to be quietly acknowledged.
For Kamuro Masumi, the pervasive tension of the first days had ebbed. Sakayanagi Arisu performed her duties as a model Class A organizer with diligent grace, her scheming persona submerged beneath a facade of normalcy. From Ryuuen's camp, there was only silence—no probes, no tests. Had the conspiracy evaporated, scared off by Sakamoto's formidable aura? The fragile sense of security she'd felt in the café began to solidify. Perhaps the storm she feared was merely a phantom.
Yet, a deeper understanding had taken root. She knew, with cold clarity, that the true nucleus of Class A was not the busy, silver-haired class representative, but the silent, watchful figure by the window. Sakayanagi's light was a crafted beam; Sakamoto's was a constant, ambient radiation.
Beyond Class A's walls, a low buzz had begun. Sakamoto's unique incidents—the hovering sit, the café save—had fermented into campus folklore, lending his ethereal reputation a few tangible, if bewildering, data points. And now, a new piece of intelligence had escaped: the café job.
The rumor spread with weekend leisure. Sakamoto works at the shopping center café.
But part-time jobs are prohibited?
How?
We should go see.
What began as curiosity among a few soon rippled outward. That weekend, the café saw a subtle, but noticeable, shift in its clientele. Among the usual patrons were new faces—students who arrived not just for coffee, but for confirmation. They came with the quiet intent of tourists visiting a rare exhibit, eager to see if the legend, now said to wear an apron, matched the rumors.
The stage Sakamoto had purchased with his points was no longer just a laboratory. It was becoming a theater, and the audience was beginning to arrive.
The weekend café hummed with a different energy. The patrons were a mix—clusters of curious first-years, a smattering of older students observing with detached interest—all lending the space the feel of a quiet exhibition hall. The subject of their subdued scrutiny moved through the room with unnerving grace.
Sakamoto, ensconced in his crisp black apron, was a study in efficient motion. His posture remained flawlessly upright, a counterpoint to the relaxed slouch of the weekend crowd. He carried a tray laden with ten full cups, a test of equilibrium that he treated as a mundane fact. The coffee swayed, caught in a delicate dance with inertia, yet never once threatened the rim. It was a silent demonstration of control that drew flickering glances and hushed comments from nearby tables.
So it's true…
How does he do that?
Just like they said.
The owner watched from behind the counter, a contented gleam in his eye. The student was an investment that kept paying dividends—not just in points, but in reputation and curious footfall.
As Sakamoto finished distributing the order, his path took him to a solitary table in a sun-drenched corner. The occupant was not a student. A woman with soft, chestnut curls and an air of considered intelligence sat there, her casual elegance marking her as faculty or staff. She observed his approach with a quiet, analytical focus.
He placed the cup before her with the same precise ceremony. "Your coffee. Please enjoy."
She lifted the cup, inhaling the aroma, but her eyes—sharp and appraising—never left him. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips, the kind that suggested not just recognition, but an impending evaluation.
"Thank you," she said, her voice mellifluous yet carrying an undercurrent of authority. She did not sip immediately. Instead, she set the cup down with deliberate care, her gaze locking onto his. "Your service is remarkably polished. One might even say… practiced beyond the ordinary. Tell me, do you find this work… enlightening?"
The question hung in the air, simple on the surface, but layered with implication. It was not a customer's idle curiosity. It was a probe, gentle but direct, from someone who understood that in this school, even a coffee shop could be a classroom, and every role a piece of a larger strategy.
The surrounding chatter seemed to fade, the spotlight of the moment narrowing to this single table where a woman who was not a student engaged the waiter who was not just a waiter. The other observers in the café might have been watching a performance, but she was reading the script.
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