Inside the cafeteria, the absurd and magnificent "candlelight lunch" finally drew to a close.
Nagumo Miyabi had consumed every exquisitely presented dish, each bite tasting like bland wax—less a meal, more a forced ceremonial obligation. Asahina Natsume, in stark contrast, was utterly satisfied, her expression glowing with the uncomplicated pleasure of a perfect culinary experience.
The moment their cutlery touched the table, the figure standing motionless in the shadows stirred. Sakamoto-kun glided to the table as if propelled by silent clockwork, his timing flawless.
What followed was a breathtaking performance of efficiency.
His movements were a silent whirlwind. Plates, cutlery, the oil-stained velvet cloth—all seemed to obey an unseen command. Dishes stacked into neat, uniform towers. Forks and knives gathered without a single clatter. With a deft flick of his wrist, every crumb and stain on the dark red cloth gathered as if magnetized, dumped cleanly into a bin, the fabric itself snapping back to pristine smoothness. Finally, a clean, damp white cloth swept over the table in a precise pattern, erasing all trace of grease and leaving behind a surface that gleamed under the cafeteria lights, cleaner than it had been before they arrived.
The entire process was fluid, shockingly brief, and executed with sterile perfection. When Sakamoto-kun bowed to signal completion, the table stood as a silent monument to his unsettling competence.
"Wow—"
The surrounding students, who had been watching intently, erupted into another wave of hushed exclamations. Phones were raised, capturing the entire cleaning routine—a clip destined to join the earlier footage of the lunch on the school's internal forum, fueling the burgeoning legend of the "Mythical First-Year, Sakamoto."
Nagumo watched, his expression darkening. His worst fear was materializing. This exaggerated spectacle, staged in the most public venue possible, was undeniably intentional. Its purpose was amplification—to broadcast this incident to the entire school. And he, Nagumo Miyabi, as a central prop in this performance, was now irrevocably tied to its center.
Once the videos spread, the whispers would begin:
"Isn't that Vice President Nagumo, being served a feast by a first-year?"
"Did you see his face? He looked completely shell-shocked."
"And this is the guy who runs the second year?"
While his authority was secure, this public and deeply embarrassing exposure—a social execution—would undeniably tarnish the carefully cultivated image of effortless, cynical control. The bitterest pill was that he couldn't even openly rebuke Sakamoto-kun. On the surface, the freshman had done nothing but "perfectly execute" the very "harsh demands" he, the interviewer, had set, providing impeccable service. To chastise the "service provider" would only make him appear petty and irrational, compounding the damage.
Damn it.
The realization crystallized with cold clarity. This was Sakamoto-kun's precise and elegant counterattack, wielded within the framework of Nagumo's own rules. He had weaponized absolute "obedience" and "service" to turn the tables completely. This first-year was not just troublesome; he was operating on a level of calculated absurdity Nagumo had never encountered, even after consolidating an entire grade.
His turbulent thoughts were interrupted by Asahina's bright voice.
"Sakamoto-kun!" She approached with an appreciative smile. "Thank you so much! The lunch was exquisite, and the service was beyond impeccable. You're an absolute genius!" She even inquired eagerly about a recipe.
Sakamoto-kun responded with calm professionalism, reciting a series of precise culinary terms, measurements in grams, temperatures, and timings with fluent ease.
Asahina's eyes sparkled. Though she understood little of the technicalities, her admiration was undimmed. "Wow! That sounds incredibly professional!"
Nagumo looked at her, utterly absorbed in the afterglow of the "gourmet experience," and could only sigh inwardly.
After a brief exchange, Asahina finally seemed to remember his presence. She waved a hand in front of his distant gaze.
"Miyabi? What are you spacing out for? Let's go!"
Nagumo snapped back to reality.
His first instinct wasn't to answer Asahina, but to sweep his gaze—sharp and vigilant—across the cafeteria. He scanned the corners, the exits, the lingering crowds.
Nothing. The black-clad figure was gone. That oppressive, ever-present sensation of being observed… it, too, seemed to have lifted.
"Where's Sakamoto?" he asked Asahina, his voice low.
Seeing his wary expression, Asahina laughed lightly. "Don't worry! I sent him away!"
"Sent him away?" Nagumo echoed, disbelief coloring his tone.
"That's right," she nodded, her manner casual. "I just told him, 'You did wonderfully, we were very satisfied. However, it's lunch break now, and the Vice President needs some private time to handle matters. You may take your rest.' He simply nodded, bowed, and left. See? Quite obedient."
She sounded slightly triumphant, as if she'd neatly solved a minor nuisance.
Obedient? Left?
Hearing this, Nagumo's tension didn't ease—it coiled tighter. Based on the "profound" understanding of Sakamoto he'd been forced to develop in just half a day, this guy didn't do anything "easily." His vow of "complete obedience" was less a promise and more a binding curse, one he executed with terrifying literalness. For him to vanish so promptly… it felt wrong. Deeply unsettling.
Nagumo's instincts screamed that those eyes were still on him, watching from some unseen vantage point. He must still be nearby.
Asahina patted his shoulder, noting his unchanged expression. "Alright, don't spook yourself. Maybe he really just went to rest? Come on, we have afternoon classes."
Nagumo remained skeptical, but the direct sensation of being watched had faded. Perhaps… perhaps he really had left. For now.
He took a deep breath, trying to quell the absurd paranoia taking root in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he could salvage a few minutes of quiet before the afternoon.
Holding onto that fragile hope, he left the still-buzzing cafeteria with Asahina.
Meanwhile, Sakamoto had already returned to the Class 1-A classroom at a speed Nagumo could scarcely imagine.
Asahina's dismissal had been effective—for a given definition of "effective." But an end to the duty? No. Merely an intermission.
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