The afternoon library breathed with a deep, scholarly quiet. In the secluded "Foreign Literature" alcove, Shiina Hiyori seemed an organic part of the stillness. She sat with perfect posture, a curtain of silver hair veiling her profile and the open book in her hands. Only the occasional, delicate turn of a page betrayed her presence—a faint rustle, the subtle shift of her slender fingers, her violet eyes tracking the text with serene focus.
Footsteps approached from behind. They were steady, clear, neither hurried nor hushed, yet they somehow wove themselves into the library's silence without fracturing it, adding a new, deliberate rhythm to the calm.
Shiina's finger paused for a half-beat on the page's edge. She did not immediately look up.
Only when the figure settled naturally into the vacant chair opposite, placing his satchel beside him with gentle precision, did she slowly lift her gaze.
Sakamoto adjusted his posture, his eyes meeting hers. He offered a slight, acknowledging nod. No words were exchanged, yet a silent greeting passed between them.
Shiina returned the nod, her gaze resting on his composed features for a moment before drifting back to her book. "Good afternoon, Sakamoto-kun," she murmured, her voice a soft note in the quiet.
Their acquaintance had formed around a shared preference for this particular shelf, a series of quiet afternoons spent in parallel reading that had built a unique, wordless rapport. Occasional, brief exchanges about a poignant passage or an author's style—terse, insightful—were their only conversation. Shiina was among the very few who could regard Sakamoto's extraordinary aura with equanimity; to her, he was akin to a profound, cryptic, yet fascinating text. Her own quiet intensity seemed to have earned a measure of his recognition, a willingness to share this silent space.
Time flowed, measured only by the turning of pages.
Finally, Shiina gently closed her poetry anthology and looked across at Sakamoto, who was absorbed in a science fiction novel.
"Sakamoto-kun."
Her voice, though soft, cleanly parted the silence.
Sakamoto lifted his eyes from visions of interstellar travel, his gaze, framed by his glasses, turning to her with calm attention.
"An unusual matter has arisen," she began, her tone as steady as ever. "Yesterday, a classmate purchased what was purported to be 'last year's midterm examination' from a second-year senior."
A slight pause, her observant eyes on him. Sakamoto's expression remained placid, attentive.
She continued. "The senior claimed this action was undertaken at your request, Sakamoto-kun of Class A. That you wished to 'help us maintain our advantage.'"
She tilted her head slightly, a strand of silver hair slipping over her shoulder. "However, this does not align with your methodology. The motive, the execution… both feel dissonant. It resembles someone operating from the shadows, appropriating your name."
Upon hearing this, Sakamoto displayed no surprise, no anger at being implicated in a scheme. He simply fell silent for a moment, as if swiftly indexing and cross-referencing the information. Then, a faint, knowing curve touched his lips.
He adjusted his glasses, his gaze drifting to the cover of his science fiction novel—a depiction of infinite cosmos and a lone spacecraft. He looked back at Shiina. "There is no cause for concern, Shiina-san. All things inevitably find their correct trajectory."
Shiina studied him. No further explanation was necessary. His reaction was answer enough—he was aware, and he had already accounted for it.
She retrieved her anthology. "It seems I worried unnecessarily."
"Not unnecessarily," Sakamoto gently corrected. "A 'gift' warranting scrutiny. Thank you for the information, Shiina-san."
The exchange concluded as quietly as it had begun. They returned to their respective literary worlds, the brief mention of conspiracy merely a minor footnote in their afternoon.
***
Yet, this tranquility did not permeate the entire library.
Several shelves away, in the open study area, the atmosphere was a study in strained discord.
Horikita Suzune sat rigidly upright, textbooks and notes arrayed before her like a defensive perimeter. Opposite her slouched the infamous "idiot trio"—Yamauchi, Ike, and Sudō—their faces etched with varying degrees of resentment and boredom.
Kushida Kikyō occupied a flanking seat, her perfectly crafted smile a persistent, if fragile, attempt to sweeten the toxic air.
Ayanokōji Kiyotaka sat slightly apart, his expression vacantly neutral, though his gaze periodically swept over the struggling study session. The majority of his focus, however, was turned inward, occupied by a separate, more pressing calculation. The quiet drama of the alcove and the noisy impasse of the study area existed in parallel, two distinct forms of tension in the library's hushed world.
This study session was Horikita's initiative. She had even, in a break from character, enlisted Kushida's help.
The cold rooftop confrontation with her brother, and his undisguised admiration for Sakamoto, had left a deep fissure in her convictions. She had begun to question whether blindly emulating her brother's harsh, solitary path was the sole route to strength. If someone like Manabu could regard the unorthodox yet undeniably potent Sakamoto with respect, it meant strength could wear many faces. She might need to discover her own.
But reality delivered a swift, brutal rebuttal.
No matter how patiently she deconstructed a problem, no matter how she tailored her explanations, she met an immovable wall: Ike's glazed indifference, Sudō's restless impatience, Yamauchi's conspicuously wandering attention. Her efforts shattered against their collective apathy.
"Horikita, this is coma-inducing!" Ike groaned, slumping further over the table.
"Seriously, I could be doing drills right now," Sudō grumbled, arms tightly folded, his textbook untouched.
Yamauchi's eyes flitted about, lingering more often on Kushida's encouraging smile than on any equation.
Horikita's grip tightened on her pen until her knuckles turned white. She fought back the surge of hot frustration and crushing impotence. Stay calm. Adapt. Find another way.
Seeking Kushida's aid—leveraging her social influence to corral and placate the trio—was her new, pragmatic step. Even if the girl's relentless amiability still set her teeth on edge.
***
In the corner, Ayanokōji's attention had long since detached from the floundering tutorial. The inefficient spectacle held no interest for him.
His focus was consumed by the enigma of the Sakamoto-affiliated exam papers.
After her investigation, Horikita had reported to him with brittle confidence: "I saw it myself. Sakamoto was holding the same papers." She believed it was proof of Sakamoto's "charity," laced with the sting of perceived condescension.
Ayanokōji was not convinced.
Eyewitness testimony was a flawed instrument; it captured a frame, not the full film.
His mind worked with cold logic. The papers' appearance was too convenient, their distribution too theatrical. Horikita's emotional interpretation clouded objective analysis.
He needed a more direct verification. He needed to bypass the narrative and touch the suspicious core of the matter itself. While Horikita wrestled with the immediate, tangible failure of her study group, Ayanokōji was already several moves ahead, probing the shadows of a larger, more intricate game.
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