Sunlight slanted through the corridors of the first-year wing, slicing the floor into sharp, geometric planes of light and shadow. Sakamoto's figure, moving with the precision of a calibrated pendulum, glided through the hall. Each stride was a constant, elegant measure, the hem of his burgundy blazer arching subtly with the rhythm of his pace.
He came to a halt outside the rear window of Class 1-B. He stood as a silent silhouette against the glass, his presence blending into the architecture, save for the cold flash of light reflecting off his spectacles.
Inside, the air of Class B was thick and warm, like honey. The students, fresh from their self-introductions, wore the radiant shyness of new beginnings, huddling in groups to share their aspirations. Beside the podium, a girl with hair the color of cherry blossoms leaned over her desk, organizing her "Key Provisions Handbook." Ichinose Honami's profile radiated a cloudless, optimistic smile—until her peripheral vision caught the still, tall figure in the hallway.
Her movements faltered. That boy... She recognized him from the entrance ceremony. Class A.
Sakamoto stood as upright as a mountain pine, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other hanging naturally at his side. Behind his black-rimmed glasses, his gaze didn't scrutinize; it observed with a gentle, patient focus. He looked less like a rival and more like a traveler appreciating the finer details of a new landscape.
As his eyes met hers, he offered a slight, courtly nod—the corner of his mouth curving into an extremely faint, polite arc—before he naturally moved on.
"What are you looking at, Ichinose-san?" a classmate asked.
Honami looked back at the window. There was no one there, only the fleeting shadows of tree branches swaying against the glass.
"Nothing," she replied, shaking her head. But her fingertips rubbed the cover of her handbook with newfound intensity. "I just felt... as if someone were measuring the world with a ruler."
The atmosphere in Class C was a stark contrast, a chaotic palette of indifference and budding aggression. Ryuuen Kakeru leaned against the window, twirling an eraser between his knuckles. He watched it tumble and bounce with a bored, predatory gaze—until the eraser suddenly snapped back into his palm.
A figure had stopped outside.
Ryuuen's lips twisted into a sneer. The black-rimmed glasses, the spear-straight posture—the guy was practically screaming for attention.
Putting on an act, Ryuuen thought. Was this "peacock" patrolling the halls to mark his territory? He watched the observer, noting the lack of curiosity in the boy's eyes. It was a cold, recording gaze.
"Hmph." Ryuuen scoffed at the empty air as the figure moved on. "Which class sent the spy? So eager to gather information on the first day?" He memorized the face, his eyes darkening. "He's putting on quite a show."
Class D was a cacophony of disorganized energy. Horikita Suzune, seeking refuge from the noise, sat alone by the window, her back as straight as a ruler, her mind buried in the handbook—until a shadow fell across the page.
She looked up. Outside the glass, Sakamoto stood still.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze acting like a soft searchlight sweeping over the room. As his eyes passed the rowdy groups, they held a flicker of tolerance; when they found the isolated students in the corners, they gained a touch of understanding. Finally, his gaze lingered on Horikita.
She felt a subtle, penetrating focus that made her instinctively tighten her posture. It wasn't a cold look, but it was one that seemed to see through her defenses.
"Ayanokoji-kun," she whispered to her neighbor. "That person outside the window..."
"The one from the bus," Ayanokoji Kiyotaka replied flatly. He watched the boy who had engineered a chair out of umbrellas that morning.
Sakamoto was intently observing Class D, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly as he took in the defiant expressions and the lack of cohesion. He looked like a master painter mentally sketching a portrait of a fractured world.
"What is he doing?" Horikita's grip tightened on her book. "Memorizing faces?"
"More like building preliminary profiles," Ayanokoji said, his voice a void of emotion.
Sakamoto completed his tour. He offered a very slight, silent nod—a farewell to the classroom—and turned to leave. The arc of his coat hem was as sharp as a paper cutter's mark, yet it carried an indescribable, serene beauty.
Back in Class A, the ripples Sakamoto had left behind showed no sign of settling. His words regarding "worthiness" and "collective honor" were stones in a calm lake.
Katsuragi Kohei remained at his desk, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, anxious beat. 100,000 points. Use it where it's truly worth it. He chewed on the subtext. Did the points represent something more than survival?
Hashimoto Masayoshi, however, was invigorated. He leaned against the window, staring toward the senior building. "Hey, Sakayanagi," he said, his eyes sparkling. "Do you think Sakamoto-kun's paper airplane—the one he threw toward the senior building—was a hint? That the answers are already over there?"
He turned back with a sharp, eager grin. "Shall we go for a 'friendly exchange'? Maybe we can dig up some inside info about the point system from our seniors."
Arisu Sakayanagi sat perfectly upright, tilting her head with a playful curve of her lips.
"Hashimoto-kun's intuition is quite charming," she said, her voice soft and clear. "Sakamoto-kun was staring out that window for a very long time. Perhaps... he was never looking at the view. He was observing the destination."