The echoes of the opening ceremony still lingered in the halls, yet Class 1-A's room had already developed its own distinct atmosphere—a sharp sense of elitism humming beneath the surface.
Thirty-nine students filled their seats. Only one remained empty: a window seat clearly labeled with its owner's name, now conspicuously vacant like a quiet defiance.
With only minutes left until the bell, whispers flowed between desks. Eyes drifted again and again toward the empty chair, curiosity accumulating like static electricity.
"Absent on the first day. That's arrogance."
A deep, weighty voice came from the front row. The speaker was a burly, bald boy—stern eyebrows, rigid posture, carved from discipline itself. His sharp stare locked onto the empty seat, radiating disapproval.
"Maybe he just got lost?"
The reply came lightly. A handsome boy with shining blond hair leaned back with a carefree smile, chatting with his neighbor but clearly just as fixated on the vacancy.
In the back row, a slender, fair-skinned girl sat quietly. A dark wooden cane rested against her desk. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders like moonlit silk, framing a delicate face. She didn't join the conversation—only glanced at the empty seat with an unreadable glimmer of interest, lips curving subtly as if the situation amused her.
Beside her, a girl with waist-length purple hair propped her cheek on one hand, gazing out the window. Her hair fell in a soft curtain, half-veiling her refined profile. She exuded an unmistakable aura of "do not disturb," entirely uninterested in the classroom's growing chatter.
Homeroom teacher Mashima Tomoya entered the classroom with steady, unhurried steps.
Broad-shouldered, sharply dressed, and radiating silent authority, he swept the room with his hawk-like gaze. The discussions died instantly. Order settled like a snapped line.
Mashima nodded, preparing for the standard opening remarks—then paused.
His eyes locked onto the back row.
The window seat.
Empty.
The name tag: *Sakamoto*.
Class A.
First period of the first day.
Late.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
Class A was supposed to embody the highest standards. Lateness was not merely discourteous—it was an affront to the very concept of elite conduct. Mashima recalled Sakamoto's file: nothing remarkable, nothing troubling. Now, however, this student's first impression had taken a sudden plunge.
His voice carried a quiet authority as he prepared to address the class:
"Students—"
Thump. Thump.
Two perfectly timed knocks interrupted his sentence, landing in the small pause he'd left between breaths.
Dozens of eyes snapped toward the door.
It opened.
A tall figure stood against the hallway light. Then he stepped forward, his silhouette sharpening—black-rimmed glasses, a clear tear-mole beneath his left eye, sharp yet serene features, and the wine-red uniform fitting his build like it had been tailored to him alone.
He adjusted his breathing subtly. Fine beads of sweat clung to his forehead, yet his expression remained composed, not frantic—calm, with a hint of dignified fatigue.
His gaze met Mashima's directly.
"I apologize deeply, sensei."
His voice was clear, steady, sincere.
"On my way here, I encountered a teacher with limited mobility who dropped several important documents. I assisted in organizing them, which delayed my arrival. I respectfully ask for your understanding."
He bowed with perfect form—respectful, but never groveling.
Helping a teacher gather scattered papers?
Believable, if unexpected.
To Mashima—who considered punctuality an elemental requirement of an elite—this explanation was earnest, but still a failure of prioritization.
Mashima's stare sharpened. He held Sakamoto's gaze for several seconds, testing the boy's resolve. No faltering. No excuses beyond what had already been stated.
"…Just this once," he said finally, voice low and firm. "Class A is expected to lead. No circumstance should compromise your time discipline. Do not forget that."
A warning without the word "late."
Its meaning unmistakable.
"Thank you, sensei." Sakamoto bowed again, his tone unwavering.
Straightening, his eyes swept the classroom for a fraction of a second. Subtle, but somehow it felt as though he briefly met everyone's gaze.
Then he walked.
No hurry.
No apology in his stride.
Just fluid, natural steps—measured as though he were moving along a corridor lined with wind chimes instead of students' stares.
His arms swayed in quiet rhythm, posture perfectly aligned. The path to the window seat was simple and direct, yet the atmosphere shifted—the way he moved, people could almost feel an elegant arc drawn through the air.
He passed the burly bald boy in front.
The boy's brows pinched together, his heavy frame leaning forward slightly, irritation simmering.
Near the back, the silver-haired girl gently tapped her cane. The playful curve of her lips deepened, her inquisitive gaze sharpening behind glass.
The blond boy's smile remained charming, but now tinged with interest. He tapped one finger lightly on his desk, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
The purple-haired girl finally tore her gaze from the window. Her expression didn't change, but a subtle shift flickered through her violet eyes—then vanished like a stone sinking beneath still water.
The classroom remained silent as Sakamoto approached his seat.
He didn't sit immediately.
His left hand glided lightly across the air above the back of the chair—a motion so smooth it seemed like an illusion. His body turned with the momentum, center of gravity lowering with a dancer's grace. His posture relaxed, breathing steady.
And then—
The moment his hips touched the seat—
*RIIING—!!*
The electric bell erupted like a sudden explosion, perfectly synchronized, as though triggered by the instant he sat.
The noise crashed into the classroom.
Bodies jolted.
Heartbeats stuttered.
Shock rippled through the room like a wave.
A moment ago—silence.
Now—a deafening roar.
No one moved.
Everyone stared.
Sakamoto sat calmly, as though he had timed the bell himself.
Only the boy by the window—amid the crashing bell—adjusted his posture with quiet elegance, his gaze settling on the podium.
Not startled. Not flinching.
The noise felt almost like a ceremonial salute fired in his honor.
He even tilted his head slightly, glancing out the window as if seeking the shadow of a passing cherry tree.
Mashima stood frozen for a heartbeat at the podium, the bell reverberating in the air, his gaze locked on Sakamoto.
*The timing was too precise.*
Sakamoto had sat down at the exact instant the bell rang—perfect synchronization down to the second.
Not technically late.
Was it calculation?
Coincidence?
Or an intentional display crafted with immaculate timing?
Vigilance—and the faintest sense of absurd disbelief—ripples through Mashima's chest.
He tightened his grip on the file in his hands, cleared his throat once, and suppressed the inexplicable disquiet that threatened his usual iron calm.
"The homeroom meeting begins now."
His voice was steady, authoritative. But in the depths of his sharp gaze, the name Sakamoto joined a quiet, high-priority list—students requiring special observation.
As the bell's echoes faded, Mashima began outlining the year's expectations. The room was orderly again.
And Sakamoto, seated by the window, had already returned to a posture of perfect composure—upright, focused, unshaken.
As if the dramatic display a moment earlier had simply not happened.