The strained, unproductive study session finally sputtered to an end. Horikita Suzune gathered her materials, her gaze sweeping impassively over Yamauchi and Ike—still moaning about the difficulty—and the subdued but clearly unfocused Sudō. A familiar wave of futility washed over her. She stood and left without a word.
Ayanokōji Kiyotaka fell into step a few paces behind her. They walked the emptying evening path in a tense, silent procession.
"Horikita."
His voice, flat and clear, pierced the quiet.
She didn't stop, only tilting her head slightly to acknowledge him.
"Regarding the exam papers," he continued, his tone devoid of inflection, "I have verified their authenticity."
Horikita's steps froze. She spun to face him, her eyes sharp. "How?"
"Deduction through parallel acquisition. If second-year seniors can sell papers, then third-year seniors likely can as well. I located a third-year from Class D and purchased their copy of the first-year midterm from their time."
He paused, watching her eyes widen marginally. "The question types, core concepts, and even specific problems show a significant degree of overlap with ours. This confirms two things: first, our papers are genuine past exams. Second, the rumors of question recycling or high similarity are almost certainly true."
The air between them seemed to congeal. The lifeline was real. The tainted gift held actual power.
"So," Ayanokōji posed the pragmatic question, "do we disseminate them? To the trio, or the entire class. This could be Class D's sole opportunity to avoid expulsion and potentially gain class points in the midterms."
Horikita was silent. A violent internal war raged. Logic screamed that this was the most efficient path to survival and advancement. The weight of the papers in her mental grasp felt incandescent.
But a stronger, more visceral emotion vetoed it: pride. Humiliation. The source of the papers—that "charity" from Sakamoto—was a barb in her self-respect. Victory earned through what felt like an opponent's pity was a hollow, intolerable prospect.
After a long moment, she drew a sharp breath, her gaze hardening with resolve. "No. We will not."
A flicker of surprise crossed Ayanokōji's impassive face.
"Points secured through such… underhanded means do not reflect true capability." Her voice was firm, almost defiant. "Improving the class must come from genuine effort. The study sessions are slow, but they are the correct path." She seemed to be persuading him, but the fervor was directed inward, a mantra to fortify her own crumbling resolve.
Ayanokōji offered no argument, merely observing her silently. Was Horikita… actually evolving? Was it because an unseen presence had, without intent, drawn a line she refused to cross?
"There's something else," Horikita said, shifting the subject, perhaps seeking analysis. She recounted the altercation with Ryūen and his cryptic final remarks, unaware Ayanokōji had witnessed it all. "That boy from Class B… his words were peculiar. He seemed to know about the papers. I suspect… other classes may have received them as well."
Ayanokōji played the part of the attentive listener, allowing a thoughtful expression to surface at the appropriate moment. He offered no commentary, only a nod of acknowledgment.
Horikita glanced at him, seemingly not expecting insightful advice, and turned to leave.
Ayanokōji remained, watching her retreating figure until she disappeared at the path's fork. He released a quiet sigh. Refusing the papers was inefficient, perhaps foolishly so. Yet, it might be the only choice that could forge a genuine, lasting change within Class D.
But did they have enough time?
Meanwhile, the omnipresent yet seemingly detached figure at the center of their dilemma—Sakamoto—stood alone in the top-floor corridor, gazing out at the campus bleeding crimson in the sunset.
With only a week until the midterms, the school thrummed with palpable anxiety. Yet, he moved with the same untroubled grace, as if the surrounding tension were a separate climate.
He was not oblivious to the conspiracy taking shape. On the contrary, disparate pieces of intelligence had been converging upon him through multiple, quiet channels for days: Asahina Natsume's emotional warning, Yamamura Miki's anxious delivery, Shiina Hiyori's dispassionate report. Like fragments of a puzzle, they were assembling into a clear picture—a frame-up, originating from the shadows of the second year, with his name as its chosen weapon.
A substantial number of copied "past midterm exam papers" were circulating throughout the first-year classes—except for Class A—all under his name.
For an ordinary student, discovering themselves the unwitting focal point of such a widespread, insidious frame-up would likely trigger panic or outrage.
Sakamoto's reaction was to gently adjust his glasses.
"I see."
The murmur was to himself, his tone devoid of perturbation, as if acknowledging a long-anticipated variable. He was not wholly unfamiliar with the second year's landscape.
From the very first day of school, while his peers were lost in wide-eyed novelty, he had begun his foundational reconnaissance. The paper airplane he had folded that day contained more than just deductions on school rules; it held meticulous observations others would overlook—including rough estimates of upperclassmen class sizes and seating arrangements gleaned from passing classroom doorways. Even then, he had noted discrepancies: subtle variances in student numbers between second- and third-year classes, hinting at the attritional reality hidden beneath the school's elite façade. For an institution boasting a near-perfect university placement rate, it was a dissonance worth filing away.
After securing his class's perfect score in the first month, he utilized the time freed from his café shifts to conduct more discreet, deeper observation.
The third year exhibited a stable, competitive order; attrition existed but was not glaringly obvious.
The second year was different. It operated with a peculiar, enforced "regularity." Inter-class dynamics were restrained, held within an artificially balanced equilibrium, lacking the organic volatility of true competition. This unnaturally harmonious surface subtly betrayed the presence of a higher, guiding hand. He had also noted, of course, the few outliers who existed outside this mainstream current—but that was a secondary thread.
Now, synthesizing the clues from Asahina's emotional warning, Yamamura's nervous delivery, and Shiina's calm report, the scattered fragments clicked into a coherent picture. The puppeteer's identity, the scope of influence, and the method of the attack aimed at him had all crystallized.
The intelligence-gathering phase was complete.
It was time to initiate a formal countermeasure.
Sakamoto's measured steps halted before a door of solemn authority: the Student Council Room. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze behind the black frames sharpening with focused intent.
In one fluid, ritualistic motion, he raised his right hand, using his middle finger to elegantly push the bridge of his glasses upward. The gesture was a silent transition, a shift from observation to action.
He then raised the same hand and knocked.
Tap. Tap-tap.
The crisp, deliberate sound echoed in the hushed corridor—not a plea for entry, but an announcement. The counterattack had begun.