The Student Council room was a masterpiece of cold, expensive architecture. Glass walls, polished chrome, and a view of Aethelgard that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of the world. It was my natural habitat, but today, the air felt thin.
I sat at the long conference table, spinning a pen between my fingers with a practiced, lazy rhythm. Across from me, the other council members were whispering, their eyes darting toward the empty chair at the end of the table. They were nervous. In this room, my word was usually law, but the "Transparency" rumors had already begun to rot the floorboards.
Then, the door opened.
Hana Mizuki walked in. She didn't hurry. Her footsteps clicked with a precision that made the room feel smaller. She wasn't wearing the standard ribbon today; she had opted for a slim black tie that mirrored my own. It was a subtle choice—a visual declaration that she was here to play my game on my level.
"You're late, Mizuki-san," the Council President said, not looking up from his tablet. He was a figurehead; I was the one who actually ran the meetings.
"I was verifying the attendance records for the last three years," Hana replied, her voice cutting through the room like a blade through silk. She didn't sit. She stood behind her chair, placing a single, thin folder on the glass table. "I found a discrepancy."
I stopped spinning my pen. The silence in the room was absolute. "Aethelgard's records are audited monthly, Hana. If there's a discrepancy, it's likely a rounding error in the scholarship fund."
"It's a 'rounding error' of four million yen," she said, her pink eyes locking onto mine behind her glasses. "Specifically, in the discretionary budget assigned to 'Student Outreach.' A budget that you, Ryu-kun, personally oversee."
I didn't flinch. If I showed even a hint of sweat, the council would smell blood. That fund was how I kept the social gears turning—it paid for the "unseen" perks that kept the elite athletes and scholars loyal to the administration.
"I move that we freeze all discretionary spending until a full, independent audit is completed," she announced.
The Treasurer, a boy who owed his position to a favor I did for his father's firm, looked at me with pure panic. If she froze that budget, the Kendo team's new mats would be canceled, the Art Club's gallery would lose its funding, and my entire network of "indebted" friends would collapse by Monday.
"A freeze is a bit dramatic, don't you think?" I said, leaning back and offering her my most effortless, high-spec smirk. "But if you want to look at the books, Hana... I'll give you the keys. Let's see if you can handle the weight of what's inside."
I wasn't surrendering. I was inviting her into a maze I had built myself.