The slat in the blinds snapped shut, severing the final, tenuous connection to the noise and light of the pool below. The room plunged back into an almost palpable darkness, broken only by the low, steady hum of the air conditioning—a mechanical heartbeat in the silent void.
Horikita Manabu stood before the window, his silhouette a stark, angular cutout against the faint backlight. Tachibana Akane, his secretary, stood a respectful distance away, holding her breath. A summons from the Student Council President to first-year students was an event of significant gravity.
"Introduce yourselves."
Horikita Manabu's voice cleaved the stillness, authoritative and devoid of warmth. He raised a hand, his slender fingers adjusting his glasses with a precise, practiced motion. The lenses caught a sliver of stray light, flashing momentarily like cold crystal.
From the opposing darkness, a nearly identical motion echoed. Sakamoto's hand rose, his fingertips touching the frames of his own glasses with a fluid grace that mirrored the president's, yet carried an innate, untouchable elegance. It was a silent, unnerving synchrony in the dark.
"I am Horikita Manabu, Third-Year Class A, President of the Student Council."
"My congratulations to you both. In the first monthly assessment, the classes you represent—Class A and Class C—achieved first and second place in the year, with 1,000 and 910 points, respectively."
He paused, allowing the numbers to resonate in the quiet room.
"A perfect score, unprecedented in the school's history. And a result that defies conventional expectations. For first-year students, this is a remarkable 'report card'."
His words were complimentary, but his tone remained a flat plane of ice, offering no warmth.
It was then that Sakamoto spoke, his voice soft yet clear, cutting through the formal tension.
"Secret Technique—"
He took a casual half-step to the side, his elbow brushing lightly against a seemingly blank section of the wall.
"—'Illumination'."
A soft click sounded.
In the far corner of the room, a recessed wall lamp flickered to life, casting a gentle, suffusive glow that pushed back the oppressive darkness, just enough to outline the four figures within the space.
Tachibana let out a soft, startled gasp. Horikita Manabu's sharp gaze snapped to the lamp, then back to Sakamoto's placid face. His eyes held a glint of reassessment. There was a light switch there? Even he, familiar with this room, had not been aware.
Under the newly revealed light, Ryūen's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes glinting with sinister satisfaction. He cared little for Sakamoto's theatrical lighting; he savored the fact that the school's apex predator had named him. It was recognition, however coldly delivered, and it fed the furnace of his ambition. Seeing Sakamoto here confirmed this was no mere commendation. He tempered his overt hostility, but the urge to provoke simmered just beneath the surface.
Sakamoto merely stood, his composure seemingly deepened by the soft light, his posture one of relaxed readiness.
"However," Horikita Manabu's tone shifted, gaining a razor's edge, "excessive conspicuousness invariably invites scrutiny. Especially when the methods behind such achievements contain… ambiguous elements."
His gaze, like a targeting laser, locked onto them.
"Class C—or rather, Class B now. Ryūen Kakeru."
He named him first.
"Your class presented a unified image of delinquency and laxity to all faculty observers at the start of the term. Explain the transformation to a 910-point standard of discipline within one month."
Horikita had reviewed Ryūen's file. It was a ledger of conflicts and violations. For such a student to engineer this result reeked of manipulation.
Ryuuen chuckled, a low sound of pure arrogance. "Does the process matter, President? The result is the only proof that counts. I have my ways of making trash useful. As long as the objective is met, my methods are my own business." As he spoke, his eyes flicked deliberately toward Sakamoto, a silent provocation woven into his defiance.
Horikita Manabu absorbed the answer in silence, offering no judgment on its insolence. His focus then pivoted, with surgical precision, to the other figure in the room.
"Class A. Sakamoto."
"Your class achieved perfection. Yet, according to my intelligence, you were the first individual to deduce the correlation between 'class points' and behavioral norms in the opening days of the term."
Horikita Manabu's mind replayed Sakamoto's unnervingly calm, subtly commanding performance during the Student Council interview. He had marked him then as an anomaly, but he hadn't anticipated history being made so swiftly. This wasn't a question; it was an indictment laid bare.
"And the anomalous leap in Class C's performance coincided precisely with your period of heightened activity. Are you familiar with Student Ryūen's so-called 'methods'?"
The query was a scalpel, probing for a hidden connection between Sakamoto and Class C's inexplicable rise.
Sakamoto lifted his gaze, meeting Horikita's piercing scrutiny. "The application of rules leaves its own discernible signature. Observation and comprehension are the duty of every student. As for Class C's progress," he paused, the hesitation artful, "Student Ryūen demonstrated his distinct form of leadership. Their result is the product of his, and his class's, collective effort. I possess no special insight."
Tachibana Akane's pen scratched frantically across her notepad. The two first-years were a study in opposites—one brash and confrontational, the other polished and evasive—yet both were masters of deflection, leaving her, the recorder, feeling perpetually a step behind. The President's pointed inquiries seemed to slide off them like water.
Horikita Manabu absorbed this in another weighted silence.
"'Distinct leadership'… 'collective effort'…"
He repeated the phrases, his voice a neutral echo that gave away nothing.
"Very well."
After a moment, he continued, "Since you are both confident in your classes' achievements and reluctant to divulge the specifics of your 'successful methodologies'…"
"Then I expect you to maintain this 'lead' in the forthcoming monthly evaluations."
"The Student Council will continue to monitor the first-year dynamic. Fierce competition elevates overall standards, provided it remains within the permissible framework of the rules."
His voice hardened, dropping into a register of pure, oppressive authority. "Any attempt to subvert the rules or corrupt the fairness of the competitive environment will, upon verification, be met with the Student Council's severest sanctions. Without exception."
The warning hung in the air, a blade aimed ostensibly at Ryūen, but its edge glinted for all in the room.
"This discussion is concluded. You are dismissed."
Horikita Manabu turned his back, presenting them with the finality of his silhouette against the window, the conversation unequivocally over.
Tachibana stepped forward smoothly. "This way, please," she murmured, gesturing toward the door.
Ryuuen snorted, spun on his heel, and stalked out without a backward glance.
Sakamoto, in contrast, offered a slight, impeccably calibrated bow to the President's back—a gesture of respect that somehow also felt like a quiet assertion of equality—before following Tachibana out.
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing the silence once more.
***
They walked side-by-side down the empty corridor, a portrait of forced coexistence, until they reached a branching path.
Ryuuen halted abruptly. He turned, a grin of pure, unadulterated mockery slicing across his face as he looked at Sakamoto.
"Hey. Sakamoto."
His voice was a barbed hook. "How's it feel? Your precious Class A had a rat. They sold you out to us. That's the only reason we hit 910. Did you know? Or do you just not give a damn? Or maybe…" he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "…you're not actually in control of anything, and that unflappable act is just that—an act?"
He laid it all out—the betrayal, the information leak, the tainted victory. The partnership with Sakayanagi was ashes, the S-system was public knowledge. He had nothing left to lose by saying it. What he wanted was to shatter that infuriating calm. He wanted to see a flicker of anger, of frustration, anything in Sakamoto's eyes as their classes stood nearly neck-and-neck.
He stared, hunting for the smallest crack in the porcelain composure.
Sakamoto stopped. He turned, his gaze meeting Ryuuen's through his glasses, utterly undisturbed by the blatant accusation.
"Student Ryūen seems unusually invested in Class A's internal affairs," Sakamoto remarked, his voice a model of steady clarity. "Class points may be acquired through numerous avenues. That Class C achieved an excellent result is a testament to your leadership. There is no need to credit baseless conjecture."
He adjusted his glasses with a faint, precise motion. "As for the upcoming midterms, the outcome remains to be seen. If Student Ryūen is interested, we may each rely on our own capabilities."
With that, he gave a slight, dismissive nod and continued down his chosen corridor, his footsteps echoing with infuriating regularity.
Ryuuen watched his retreating back until it vanished around a corner. He spat a curse under his breath.
"Pretentious bastard…"
But beneath the anger, a sliver of disquiet wormed its way in. The reaction had been too perfect. Too controlled. Was Sakayanagi' betrayal part of his design all along? Did he have some countermove already in play?
He shoved the doubts aside with a mental snarl. It didn't matter.
Hmph. We'll see.
He turned and stomped in the opposite direction. Mercy was off the table this month. From what he'd seen of Class A—the anxious Kamuro, the calculating Sakayanagi—they were nothing formidable. Sakamoto was just one man.
Class A was nothing special. The real battle was just beginning.
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