Nagumo Miyabi fled.
He didn't walk; he stumbled back to the Class 2-A classroom in a near-run, slamming the door shut and pressing his back against the cold wood as if barricading himself against a pursuer. His chest heaved, breaths ragged and shallow, the ghost of pure, animal panic still etched on his features—a loss of composure he had never once allowed the world to see.
Get it together. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head as if to physically dislodge the memory. He couldn't afford this. Not here, not in front of the second-years whose respect was the bedrock of his influence. With deliberate, forced slowness, he dragged air into his lungs, willing his face to settle into its familiar, controlled mask of cynical amusement. But the shock had sunk deep, leaving a fissure in his eyes that no expression could fully plaster over.
"Nagumo?"
The voice was soft, laced with a concern that immediately put him on edge. Asahina Natsume was at his side in moments, her sharp gaze missing nothing. "You look awful. What happened?" She leaned closer, her whisper dropping. "Was it... him again?"
A muscle in his jaw twitched. Him. The unspoken name hung between them, an accusation. Denial surged up instinctively—how could he possibly articulate the humiliation of being presented with toilet paper by a phantom in a locked stall? That story would bury him deeper than any political scandal.
"It's nothing," he muttered, turning his face away, his voice strangely brittle. "Just... a stomachache. From lunch." The excuse was flimsy, pathetic even to his own ears. He didn't wait for her reply, striding stiffly to his seat and collapsing into it, burying his face in his folded arms in a pantomime of exhaustion.
Asahina didn't push, but the quiet skepticism in her stillness was louder than any question.
Alone in the false dark of his own making, Nagumo's heart continued its frantic drumbeat against his ribs. The scene replayed behind his eyelids in merciless high definition: the silent materialization, the reverent kneel, the offering held aloft. It violated physics. It violated sanity.
How? The question was a scream in the quiet of his mind. The door was locked. There was no sound. No shadow. Nothing.
A desperate, fragile theory offered itself—a hallucination. A stress-induced phantom born from his own hyper-vigilance. He clung to it, a drowning man to splintered wood. It had to be that. The alternative—that Sakamoto truly operated on a logic and capability beyond his comprehension—was a void he refused to peer into.
Real or not, the effect was absolute. The last of his resistance had crumbled in that sterile bathroom. There was only one course of action left.
He lifted his head, his movements jerky, and pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered, then stabbed at the screen with sharp, decisive taps. He needed to contact Horikita Manabu. Immediately.
If Sakamoto wanted into the Student Council so badly, fine. He would personally deliver him.
The after-school sun slanted through the tall windows of the Student Council room, painting long, severe rectangles of light across the polished floor. Horikita Manabu sat behind the president's desk, the very picture of composed authority, waiting.
A precise knock sounded at the door.
"Enter."
The door opened, and Sakamoto walked in. His steps were measured, utterly silent. He stopped before the desk, bowed with flawless formality, and straightened to his full, unnervingly still height.
"Good evening, President Horikita. I am Sakamoto, responding to your summons."
"Good evening, Sakamoto. I am Horikita Manabu, Student Council President from Class 3-A."
The exchange was a formality, a bare-minimum social script. Both understood the unspoken gravity of the meeting. Horikita Manabu was already apprised of the situation—from two distinct, compelling sources.
The first was Vice President Nagumo's uncharacteristically rushed and strained communication earlier, vehemently advocating for Sakamoto's immediate, exceptional admission with a desperation that bordered on pleading. Nagumo had offered no details, only intense, vague praise about "unique capability" and "assessment already complete."
The second source was the digital wildfire itself: the forum videos of a candlelit cafeteria service and a cleaning performance of surreal precision. The narrative wrote itself. By cross-referencing Nagumo's sudden urgency with Sakamoto's very public, very bizarre displays of "service," Horikita Manabu had already drawn his conclusions long before the first-year arrived in his office.
Now, he observed the boy before him—the epicenter of the quiet storm—his own gaze cool and analytical. The assessment, for him, was just beginning.
"First," Horikita Manabu began, cutting straight to the core. His voice was a calibrated instrument, devoid of warmth. "I must clarify. The 'one-week interview period' instituted by Vice President Nagumo, and his demand for your absolute obedience, have no basis in our formal regulations. They were his personal… improvisation."
He let the statement hang, a test in itself. He was watching for a flicker of surprise, a hint of betrayed outrage.
None came. Sakamoto merely gave a slight, acknowledging nod. "I see. Thank you for the clarification, President."
He knew. The realization settled in Manabu's mind with definitive weight. This first-year had been fully aware he was navigating a sham procedure, yet he had not only chosen to engage—he had weaponized Nagumo's own rules against him with brutal, theatrical efficiency. The intellect, the audacity, the sheer control required… It was not merely impressive; it was a strategic masterstroke.
Precisely as extraordinary as I suspected.
His initial interest had been academic—seeing in Sakamoto a potential counterweight to Nagumo's destabilizing ambitions. He had not anticipated the counterweight would be a wrecking ball, nor that it would swing into action so decisively, and so soon.
"However," Manabu continued, his tone shifting from clarification to declaration. "While the procedure was irregular, the result is undeniable. Based on Vice President Nagumo's… enthusiastic recommendation and my own assessment of your demonstrated capabilities, I formally approve your admission to the Student Council. I will personally process the necessary documentation with the school."
Sakamoto offered another perfect bow. "Thank you for your trust, President. I will strive to fulfill my duties."
The etiquette was flawless, the deference surface-level. It was the demeanor of a sovereign visiting a foreign court, not a subject receiving a boon.
Manabu regarded him for a long moment before posing his next, more crucial question. "Your initial visit to this office was one of investigation, Sakamoto-kun. A study of the school's systems. What has changed? Why join the mechanism you sought only to observe?"
Sakamoto adjusted his glasses, the light glinting off the lenses. "As you noted, my intent was observation. Vice President Nagumo's offer presented a unique variable. I chose to engage with it. If this position allows for more efficient service to the student body, it is a logical progression."
Logical. Of course. Manabu almost smiled. There was no sentiment here, no ambition in the conventional sense. Only a relentless, applied logic.
"Very well," Manabu said, his own decision final. "You will have latitude. The council's mundane daily affairs will not be your concern; maintain your independent methods. But in exchange…"
He leaned forward, the weight of his authority condensing in the space between them. His gaze sharpened, aiming to pierce through the calm facade.
"You are aware of my connection to Horikita Suzune of Class 1-D. Therefore, I have a condition. I entrust you with…"