The echoes of the opening ceremony still lingered in the hallways, but the atmosphere within First Year Class A had already curdled into something far more clinical. A palpable sense of elitism permeated the room—a silent agreement among the chosen that they were the architects of the school's future.
Thirty-nine students sat in rigid formation. However, the window seat, marked with a pristine name tag, remained conspicuously vacant. In a room defined by order, that empty chair was a screaming dissonance.
"Absent on the first day," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from the front row. Katsuragi Kohei, a burly boy with a shaved head and a gaze like a vice, stared at the void. His brow was furrowed with "discipline" personified. "A bold display of arrogance."
"Maybe he just lost his way?" a lighter voice countered. Hashimoto Masayoshi leaned back in his chair, a sun-drenched smile playing on his lips, though his eyes remained sharply fixed on the vacancy.
Across the room, Arisu Sakayanagi sat with a serene, lunar grace. Her silver hair shimmered like moonlight against her pale skin, and her dark wooden cane rested against the desk like a dormant sentinel. She didn't join the speculation; she merely observed the empty seat with an insightful shimmer in her eyes, a faint, unreadable curve touching her lips. To her, this wasn't a disruption—it was an opening move in a game she hadn't yet named. Beside her, Kamuro Masumi rested her chin on her hand, staring out the window with a mask of bored indifference that bordered on a warning.
The door slid open with a heavy thud. Mashima Tomoya, the homeroom teacher, stepped into the room.
He was a man built of sharp angles and iron discipline. His hawk-like gaze swept over his new domain, expecting the absolute peak of decorum. The classroom fell into an immediate, vacuum-like silence.
Mashima prepared to speak, but his eyes snagged on the last row. The window seat was still a vacuum. The name Sakamoto on the desk seemed to mock the precision he demanded. Displeasure flickered across Mashima's face. In Class A, lateness wasn't just a lapse in time; it was a stain on the collective honor. He mentally recalled Sakamoto's file—unremarkable, nearly invisible. A poor start, Mashima thought.
"Students—"
Thump. Thump.
Two steady, melodic knocks interrupted him with surgical timing.
The door glided open. A tall silhouette stood framed against the hallway light before stepping into the room. Under his black-rimmed glasses, the dark tear mole was a sharp point of focus on an otherwise serene face. His wine-red uniform was immaculate, looking as though it had been tailored to his very soul.
He adjusted his glasses, and though fine beads of sweat dotted his brow, his breathing remained as steady as a metronome. He met Mashima's gaze with a terrifyingly sincere frankness.
"My deepest apologies, sir," his voice was a clear, resonant baritone. "While en route, I encountered a faculty member with limited mobility who had unfortunately scattered several sensitive documents. I took the liberty of assisting with their reorganization, which delayed my arrival. I earnestly request your understanding."
He bowed—a perfect, sixty-degree tilt that managed to be respectful without an ounce of subservience.
Helping a teacher? It was a reason both plausible and infuriatingly moral. To Mashima, however, an elite's first priority was the schedule. He scrutinized the boy for a long, silent beat. The excuse felt naive, yet the boy's delivery was unshakable.
"Once," Mashima said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative rumble. "Class A is the pinnacle of this institution. Nothing—not even charity—excuses a lapse in discipline. Remember that."
He gave a sharp nod. "Take your seat."
"Thank you, sir." Sakamoto bowed again.
He straightened and began to walk. The classroom held its breath. There was no haste in his step, no flush of embarrassment. His movement was a study in rhythmic grace, his arms swinging in a moderate, calculated arc. To the observers, it felt as though he wasn't just walking to a desk, but performing a high-wire act across an invisible line.
He passed the rows of his peers, oblivious to the weight of their stares. Katsuragi's brow deepened into a canyon of doubt. Sakayanagi's fingers tapped the head of her cane, her interest sharpening into a predatory glint. Hashimoto's smile didn't fade, but his eyes narrowed, calculating the threat level of this newcomer.
Sakamoto reached the window seat. He didn't simply sit.
His left hand brushed the air above the chair's back—a motion so swift it seemed like a trick of the light. He pivoted on his heel, his center of gravity sinking with the effortless fluidity of a falling leaf.
The exact millisecond his weight settled into the chair—
RING—!
The electric school bell erupted, a violent, deafening roar that shattered the silence of the room. The sudden wall of sound made half the class flinch; shoulders tensed, and hearts hammered against ribs in the wake of the sonic assault.
Amidst the cacophony, Sakamoto remained a statue of absolute composure. He sat perfectly upright, his gaze already locked onto the podium. He adjusted his posture slightly, as if the bell were not a noise, but a personalized fanfare for his arrival. He turned his head a fraction of an inch toward the window, looking out as if searching for the drifting petals of a cherry tree.
Mashima stood frozen at the podium. The synchronization was impossible. Sakamoto had claimed his seat at the precise vibration of the official start time. Mathematically, he was not late.
Was it a calculation? A fluke? Or a performance designed to challenge the very concept of the school's order?
A ripple of vigilance—and a touch of the absurd—took root in Mashima's heart. He gripped his clipboard, cleared his throat, and forced the classroom back under his thumb.
"The homeroom meeting begins now," he announced.
But as he spoke, the name Sakamoto was already being etched into his mental list of students who required "special attention."
The bell faded. Sakamoto sat as a paragon of student conduct, his expression as calm as a still pond, as if the theatricality of the last sixty seconds had been nothing more than a quiet morning breeze.