Ryuuen Kakeru turned on his heel and strode away, his triumphant smirk lingering in the dim air like a stain. He didn't look back, his departing footsteps echoing until they were swallowed by the school's vast silence.
Alone in the corridor, Sakayanagi Arisu allowed the cold anger on her face to dissipate as quickly as it had formed. She lowered her eyelids, a curtain falling over the turbulent calculations within. Kamuro Masumi? Sakamoto's dog? The accusation was lurid, tailor-made to Ryuuen's vulgar provocations.
She took a slow, measured breath, consciously distancing herself from the emotional hook. Her mind, a precision instrument, began disassembling Ryuuen's report.
The surface-level data—using points to purchase a café job—was, as she'd stated, of marginal value. Observable. Deductible.
A Sakamoto asset in Class C? Ryuuen's refusal to name them was telling. Two possibilities: it was true, and he intended to handle it internally to assert control, or it was a deliberate ambiguity, a phantom threat to make his other information seem weightier.
Then, the core claim: Kamuro Masumi as Sakamoto's proxy in Class A.
Her fingers absently traced the smooth lacquer of her cane. The memory surfaced: the convenience store incident during the first week. Kamuro's attempted theft, Sakamoto's almost supernatural intervention. That could certainly form the basis of leverage—blackmail, or a debt of gratitude. The mechanics were plausible.
But the logic felt flawed.
Her week of silent observation painted Sakamoto as the archetypal lone operator. His elegance was a moat; his kindness, a polished wall. At his core was a profound, self-sufficient isolation. Would such a being bother to "cultivate" a subordinate as outwardly unremarkable as Kamuro Masumi? To what conceivable end?
Her focus shifted back to the source: Ryuuen Kakeru himself. His triumphant, taunting demeanor was a performance, but the intelligence behind it was real. She had gravely underestimated him. His consolidation of Class C was a masterclass in ruthless efficiency. A player of that caliber didn't deliver "bombshells" out of charity.
This was a calculated gambit. Truth diluted with falsehood, possibility presented as fact. He didn't need her to believe it wholly—he only needed to plant the seed of doubt. If she acted upon it, even cautiously, she would be doing his work: testing Sakamoto's defenses, potentially fracturing Class A's cohesion from within. Ryuuen's goal wasn't to inform her; it was to use her as a probe.
"Heh…"
A soft, self-mocking exhale escaped her lips. The pressure Sakamoto exerted had, indeed, made her momentarily susceptible. She had almost taken the bait.
Throughout the afternoon classes, Sakayanagi maintained a facade of attentiveness while her perception split. Her gaze, seemingly idle, tracked two points: Sakamoto by the window, and Kamuro Masumi a few rows away.
Sakamoto was a portrait of unimpeachable composure—taking notes, answering with polite precision, an island of calm. Kamuro, however, was a study in subtle dissonance. Her head remained bowed, a curtain of purple hair obscuring her face, but her fingers betrayed a restless, unconscious curling. Was it guilt? Anxiety? Or simply the weight of Ryuuen's earlier confrontation?
When the dismissal bell finally rang, Sakayanagi made her decision. Speculation was a weak tool. She would engage directly, on her own terms.
She rose gracefully just as Sakamoto did, timing her movement to intercept his path to the door.
But another was faster.
With a sudden, jarring scrape of chair legs, Kamuro Masumi shot up from her seat. A faint flush was visible at the nape of her neck as she hurried forward, physically placing herself between Sakamoto and the exit.
"Sakamoto-kun!"
Her voice was strained, tight with a nervous urgency that bordered on desperation.
"I… I need to speak with you. Right now."
Sakamoto stopped. His head tilted slightly, his expression one of polite inquiry, as if surprised by the interruption. The classroom's ambient noise seemed to drop a degree, the eyes of nearby students instinctively drawn to the scene.
Sakayanagi Arisu halted her own advance, her grip firm on her cane. A fresh variable had entered the equation. She would observe this first. The probe, it seemed, had been launched by another.
Sakamoto lowered his gaze, the lenses of his glasses catching the classroom light as they settled on Kamuro's flushed, anxious face. There was no surprise in his expression, no irritation—only a calm, almost pre-emptive acknowledgment.
"Very well," he said, his voice even and undisturbed. "We may converse on the way."
He agreed without hesitation.
Sakayanagi's poised foot, ready to step forward, stilled mid-motion. On the way? The phrase echoed in her mind. Did they share a route, or was this a prearranged cover? The naturalness of his response felt too seamless, too unperturbed by the sudden, public demand.
Ryuuen's crude accusation resurfaced with new, unnerving weight. "He's probably Sakamoto's dog by now." Was there a kernel of truth wrapped in Ryuuen's provocation? Kamuro's jittery urgency, Sakamoto's unflappable acceptance—it suggested an understanding that bypassed ordinary classmate interactions.
In an instant, Sakayanagi's strategy pivoted. Direct engagement could wait. A shadow's perspective might prove far more illuminating.
She watched as Kamuro exhaled a visible breath of relief, giving a quick, flustered nod before falling into step just behind Sakamoto as they exited the classroom.
Without a moment's hesitation, Sakayanagi moved. Leaning lightly on her cane, she blended into the post-class exodus, her movements a study in fluid discretion. She used the flow of students as a living screen, angling herself behind pillars and at corridor junctions to maintain a careful, unseen distance.
Her silver eyes, sharp and unblinking, remained locked on the two figures ahead. Sakamoto walked with his customary, measured grace, an island of calm in the bustling current. Kamuro trailed slightly behind, her head bowed, her fingers twisting subtly—a portrait of someone rehearsing a difficult speech.
What transaction is occurring here? Sakayanagi's mind raced. Is this the fallout of Ryuuen's trap, or the revealing of a deeper connection?
The soft, precise tap of her cane against the linoleum floor marked a quiet, relentless rhythm—the sound of a predator falling into step, silent and intent, ready to dissect the truth from the shadows.
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