The door to the Student Council room swung open with a soft sigh. Sakamoto entered with his customary, fluid composure, his gaze performing a swift, analytical sweep of the interior.
The figures he expected—President Horikita Manabu or Secretary Tachibana Akane—were absent. Instead, occupying the president's desk was a second-year student with striking blonde hair.
Nagumo Miyabi.
The individual Asahina Natsume had warned him against. The architect of the first-year exam paper conspiracy bearing his name.
Sakamoto's expression remained a placid mask, as if he had merely encountered an ordinary upperclassman. He offered an elegant, precise bow. "Vice President Nagumo. Good afternoon."
Nagumo's eyes widened a fraction in surprise before settling into a sly, evaluating smile. He had anticipated some random petitioner, not the "legendary first-year" himself, the centerpiece of his little game. And he appeared… utterly calm. By now, rumors of his "clandestine exam distribution" should have been rippling through the first-year ranks. Was this a facade, or genuine ignorance?
"Well, well. Sakamoto-kun. To what do we owe the honor?" Nagumo leaned back, lacing his fingers atop the desk, his posture one of relaxed authority. "What brings you to the Student Council?"
Sakamoto's reply was direct. "I came to seek an audience with President Horikita. I wish to consult him on a certain matter."
A flicker of irritation crossed Nagumo's features. Seeking Horikita? What couldn't he discuss with the Vice President? Interesting. Perhaps he had sensed the trap and, in desperation, was turning to the one upperclassman known to hold him in some regard. That seemed the most plausible explanation.
"I see," Nagumo said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Unfortunately, the President is engaged elsewhere today. A wasted trip, I'm afraid."
"No matter. I shall return another time. Farewell, Vice President." Sakamoto gave another slight nod and turned to leave.
"Wait."
Nagumo's voice stopped him. "If the matter is pressing, you may address it with me, the Vice President. After all," he added, a note of possessiveness in his tone, "I will be ascending to the presidency shortly. You are aware of this?"
It was true. Horikita Manabu's tenure was ending; Nagumo's succession was all but guaranteed.
Sakamoto paused. He turned slowly, facing Nagumo once more. In a fluid, deliberate motion, he raised his hand and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger—a gesture that felt like the cocking of a weapon.
After a measured silence, he spoke. "To be candid, I came with the intention of applying for membership in the Student Council. I wish to contribute to the school's order and development. I had heard President Horikita possesses keen discernment and sought his evaluation."
"Join the Student Council?" Nagumo's smile stiffened imperceptibly. This was an unforeseen variable. A spur-of-the-moment lie, or a genuine ambition? It was impossible to discern, but it presented a perfect opportunity.
Whatever Sakamoto's true objective was, this was a chance to bring him directly under his thumb.
"Oh? Ambitious!" Nagumo's grin widened, predatory. "I admire ambition. In principle, I approve your application."
He raised a single finger, his tone shifting to one of deliberate, oppressive provocation. "However, by Student Council regulations—my regulations—new members require a one-week 'probationary period.' And I happen to be your designated evaluator for this week."
He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Sakamoto's. "During this week, you will obey my every command and arrangement without question or error. This is the only way to adequately assess your obedience and capability. What do you say?"
The condition was absurd, a blatant power play disguised as protocol. As Vice President, he could enforce it. If Sakamoto had come seeking help, such a demeaning leash would force a retreat. If not, it would bind him in place, neutralizing him for a crucial week. Nagumo reveled in the manipulation, the test of control.
He awaited the expected frown of refusal.
Instead—
Nagumo's vision blurred. In a movement too fast to properly register, Sakamoto's figure seemed to phase from his position by the door to a point directly before the desk. There was no sound of footsteps, no shift in the air—just an instantaneous, impossible relocation. He now stood mere inches away, his presence suddenly dominating the space, his calm eyes looking down at Nagumo from a new, unsettling vantage point.
In the next moment, Sakamoto executed a movement that caused Nagumo's pupils to contract to pinpricks.
He elegantly lowered his right knee to the floor in a formal kneel, his left palm coming to rest flat on the polished surface. His upper body inclined forward in a bow, his head lowered—the posture of a knight pledging fealty, or a perfectly disciplined retainer.
"As you command."
His voice was clear, unwavering. "Vice President Nagumo. Your orders?"
Nagumo Miyabi was momentarily nonplussed. He had accepted. Without a flicker of hesitation, without a trace of protest. What kind of person was this?
The initial shock was quickly overridden by a surge of intense, predatory curiosity. If Sakamoto had taken the bait, then he would play the game to its fullest.
"Excellent!" Nagumo suppressed his astonishment, a renewed smile stretching his lips. He cast a dismissive glance around the moderately cluttered Student Council room. "Then, your first probationary assessment: clean this room. Meticulously. Inside and out. Begin now."
He wanted to gauge the limits of this "legendary" first-year's capability. Cleaning a space this size required grunt work, not flair. And from Sakamoto's immaculate, poised appearance, he seemed utterly divorced from such menial labor.
Sakamoto rose and began to move.
What followed was not cleaning.
It was a performance that redefined the act into a symphony of hyper-efficient, breathtaking artistry.
Sakamoto's form became a blur of controlled motion. Cleaning implements—cloths, brooms, mops—seemed to gain sentience in his hands. He pivoted around furniture with the grace of a dancer to reach a high window ledge; he bent with the fluidity of a contortionist to eradicate dust from impossible corners. At one point, he used the slight recoil from a chair back to launch himself upward, the tip of an inverted broom tracing every micron of the ceiling light fixture with surgical precision.
Dust didn't so much fall as it coalesced, guided by some unseen kinetic force into neat clusters before being funneled unerringly into the wastebasket.
Even Nagumo's own solid wood desk was not spared. A velvet cloth flashed across its surface in a series of rapid, intricate passes, and within seconds, the wood gleamed with a mirror-like finish, perfectly reflecting Nagumo's own stunned expression.
The entire process was silent, seamless, and unnervingly swift.
In less than ten minutes, Sakamoto's motion ceased as abruptly as it had begun. He stood before Nagumo's desk, offering a slight bow.
The Student Council room was transformed. It was not merely clean; it was sanitized, polished to a state of sterile perfection that outshone any professional service. The air smelled faintly of citrus and ozone.
And on the desk before Nagumo, a cup of steaming black tea had materialized, its aroma subtle, its temperature ideal.
Sakamoto inclined his head once more. "Cleaning is complete, Vice President Nagumo. Please conduct your inspection."
Nagumo Miyabi stared. His gaze moved from the impossibly reflective surface of his desk, to the perfectly presented tea, and finally settled on Sakamoto's utterly composed face.
The smile on his lips had frozen into something brittle and rigid.
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