The first week etched distinct patterns into each classroom, like early frost on varied landscapes.
Class 1-D remained a canvas of cheerful chaos. Ayanokōji Kiyotaka observed from his window seat, a passive registrar of social tectonics. Cliques had solidified. Hirata Yousuke was the benevolent fulcrum, moving between groups with earnest smiles, his ambition to unify the class both palpable and, in Ayanokōji's estimation, naively optimistic. His attempt to broker peace with the isolated Horikita Suzune had met with predictable, icy failure.
The self-styled "idiot trio" of Yamauchi, Ike, and Sudō still gathered, but Ayanokōji noted a subtle dampening in Yamauchi's boisterousness. The boy who had once blustered about his "love radar" now carried a faint, lingering deflation. An external correction, Ayanokōji mused silently. A lesson delivered, perhaps. Not entirely detrimental to class stability.
Class 1-C thrived under a different law—the law of the jungle, presided over by Ryuuen Kakeru. From his perch, his predatory gaze had already culled and categorized his classmates. He had assembled the beginnings of a toolkit: Shiina Hiyori, the silent analyst; Yamada Albert, the brute-force enforcer; Ibuki Mio, the sharp, solitary weapon; Ishizaki Daichi, the willing, violent hand. The class moved with a tense, gathering purpose, a storm cell slowly rotating around its dark center.
Yet, Ryuuen's mood was foul. A week of surveillance on his primary target, Sakamoto of Class A, had yielded nothing but frustration. The boy's life was a closed loop of impeccable performance—no friends, no vices, no visible seams in his armor. Sakayanagi's cold dismissal over their alliance only sharpened his irritation. Sakamoto stood like a monolith, frustratingly unscalable.
But one thread of data glimmered in the surveillance reports: Kamuro Masumi. Her presence at Sakamoto's café was too frequent, too focused. She was not a casual observer. A connection. A potential pressure point. A thin, cruel smile touched Ryuuen's lips. If the fortress had no gate, one might tunnel in through a nearby root.
Class 1-B presented a stark contrast, bathed in the warm, cohesive light of Ichinose Honami's leadership. The atmosphere was one of open collaboration and shared purpose, a testament to her charismatic sincerity. It was a formidable strength, this unity.
Yet, in the teachers' office, their homeroom teacher, Hoshinomiya Chie, felt a chill beneath that warmth. Her gentle brow was furrowed. A piece of casual staffroom gossip had lodged in her mind like a splinter: a student in Class A had already deciphered the school's core "S-system" and was trading the intelligence. At least two classes now hold the rulebook, she thought, watching her bright, trusting students through the window. And my class is still reading the cover. The race for survival had begun in the shadows, and Class 1-B, for all its harmony, was already a step behind.
The stage was set. In Class D, a tool observed. In Class C, a predator searched for a weakness. In Class B, a guardian harbored a silent fear. And in Class A, at the center of it all, a young man served coffee with impossible grace, a calm eye in the gathering storm of the first year.
A cold knot of certainty tightened in Hoshinomiya Chie's chest. Information was the lifeblood of this system, and her class was hemorrhaging it. No amount of Honami's radiant leadership could compensate for such a fundamental disadvantage. The first monthly class ranking loomed like a verdict already written.
The memory surfaced, unbidden: Honami's bright, earnest voice praising a boy from Class A after the Student Council interviews. Sakamoto-kun. He was… incredible. So composed.
Could it be him? The thought was a lightning strike in the dark. The architect of the information leak, the one calmly upending the board before most players even knew the game had begun—could it be that same, composed boy?
The rules were clear: teachers could not intervene directly. She could not hand her class the answers. But to observe a rival force? To understand the caliber of the opposition? That was not interference; it was due diligence.
The café, then. The rumored stage for this enigmatic student.
Dressed in soft, intellectual casuals, her brown curls framing a gently inquisitive face, Hoshinomiya Chie entered the space. The rich scent of coffee enveloped her. Her eyes, practiced in assessing students, quickly found their subject.
There he was. Sakamoto. Moving behind a tray with an economy of motion that was almost unnerving. His posture was flawless, his service a silent ballet of efficiency. He placed a cup before a customer with the same focused grace one might use to set a precious artifact on a pedestal.
She took a seat in a quiet corner, a spectator ordering a prop. Her coffee arrived, but her attention never wavered from the young man in the apron.
He noticed her gaze—of course he did. His head turned a precise fraction, his eyes meeting hers through the lenses. There was no curiosity, no recognition, no flicker of interest at a teacher's presence. She was scanned, logged as a data point, and dismissed. The indifference was absolute, and utterly professional.
A small, thoughtful smile touched Hoshinomiya Chie's lips as she lifted her cup.
So this is you, she thought, the steam from her coffee warming her face. The rumor given form. The boy who knows the rules and is already rewriting them. Let's see, Sakamoto-kun, what kind of player you truly are.
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