Watching Nagumo Miyabi's bedroom eyes drift toward Ayanokoji Kiyotaka — slow, lingering, practically adhesive — Chris felt something inexplicably difficult to keep a straight face about.
Not that it showed, of course. As a professionally trained puppet master operating strictly from behind the curtain, his expression remained perfectly neutral.
After all, this was entirely his own doing.
Nagumo Miyabi's entire brand was reckless libertinism — acting purely on impulse, thinking exactly zero steps ahead. The man cheerfully chased after girls who had both money and connections and who knew full well he was playing them, with an audacity so brazen it gave the impression he was only planning to live for exactly three years at this school.
You'd almost think he had a system too, the way he carried himself.
As for why he had no fear of consequences after graduation, despite knowing full well he had no such advantage — some people just weren't afraid. It was that simple.
Which was precisely why this sudden "shift in preferences" of his hadn't yet set off alarm bells among the other second-years. At worst, they'd chalk it up to him recognizing talent.
Only two people had caught the faint, ominous undertone buried in it: Ryuuen Kakeru and Ayanokoji Kiyotaka — the kind of minds that recognized a certain pattern of thinking when they saw it.
How to put Nagumo Miyabi into words...
All you could really say was that the man had an eye. He'd homed in on exactly the highest-quality male specimens the Advanced Nurturing High School had to offer without a moment's hesitation.
Thank god, Chris thought, that he'd planted himself squarely in this woman's no-fly zone from the very start.
Just imagining what Nagumo's next offensive might look like was enough to send a full-body shudder down his spine.
Chris silently made the sign of the cross over the soon-to-be victims:
Big bro, Ryuuen, Ayanokoji — you three are the last line of defense for the honor of men everywhere. The fate of the innocent rests on your shoulders. Hold the line.
And while Chris was busy reveling in their misfortune —
Horikita Manabu, who had been standing with his head bowed in silent thought, suddenly spoke.
"We've used a physical restraint to keep it within our field of vision. But the moment we leave to pursue other targets and break eye contact — our memories of it will begin to fade."
"Even if we retain the rational knowledge that something exists, the loss of sensory recognition will make it nearly impossible to properly remember your contributions after the exam ends."
Horikita Manabu reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his student ID, and found a notepad slip. He wrote a single line on it with quick, precise strokes.
"Given that — let me leave you something in writing. I'll state the circumstances clearly and pin my student ID to it. When the exam is over, no matter what your memories look like, you can bring this to the student council and I'll honor whatever I've promised."
Beside him, Nagumo Miyabi caught the gesture and let a thin, mocking smile curl at the corner of his mouth.
"Ha. So our esteemed student council president is planning to take sole credit for the juniors' hard work, then dole out the rewards at his own leisure?"
"Quite the authority you're wielding there~"
Horikita Manabu didn't spare him a glance. His expression remained flat.
"This is simply the most straightforward exchange of mutual benefit and credit collateral."
"I trust that anyone still standing in a place like this is nobody's fool. Everyone here knows what matters more."
Chris was quiet for a moment. Then he reached out and accepted the student ID without argument.
He turned it over in his hand with a glance. "Deal."
"From what I know, the official exam floors almost always have a hidden boss. Since the upperclassmen are clearly itching for a fight — the rest of us crash-landers, having nothing in the way of weapons, will sit this next part out."
"A wise decision."
Horikita Manabu's gaze shifted to the rear of the group — to the silver-white-haired girl leaning against the wall with her arms folded, watching the proceedings like an audience member at a play.
"Kiryuuin. Since you didn't sign up for this exam yourself... stay here and keep an eye on the juniors."
Then he turned to Ayanokoji Kiyotaka.
"As for you, Ayanokoji..."
"Please allow me to come with you," Ayanokoji answered without hesitation.
Chris looked at him, mildly surprised.
"If I'm remembering correctly, Ayanokoji — you've had a pretty up-close look at what this thing can do, haven't you?"
"Going along as an unarmed crash-lander carries a pretty serious chance of getting you killed."
Ayanokoji didn't look at him. His gaze drifted toward the darkness at the end of the corridor, his voice calm and even.
"Precisely because I've seen what it can do — there are certain things I want to confirm."
"And besides... I'm curious about what the difficulty looks like for the upperclassmen's exams."
His mind was made up. Chris asked nothing further.
No surprise there, honestly. When it came to people who came out of the White Room, the drive to seek knowledge and the drive to court death tended to scale at exactly the same rate.
Chris watched as Horikita Manabu took the lead, Nagumo Miyabi fell in beside him, and Ayanokoji brought up the rear — the whole group moving in formation out of the service corridor, their figures shrinking and then vanishing around the corner.
The next second.
Like a switch being cut.
"Um... I don't think I got my shoes back..."
Shinaa Hiyori was staring down at her own feet — white cotton socks, no shoes — murmuring softly to herself. Then her expression stalled. A blank look swept through her eyes.
"Huh? Wait... where are my shoes?"
"Why are my shoes gone?"
The moment The Silence moved completely out of everyone's line of sight, its passive ability began to take effect.
Shinaa Hiyori's expression, which had been clear a moment ago, rapidly shifted into confusion.
When the soles of her socked feet registered the cold seeping up from the tiled floor of the café's service corridor, that confusion curdled into something closer to unease.
"What's going on... why are we standing here?"
Amikura Mako and Kamuro Masumi were wearing the exact same expression — the universal look of who am I and what is this place.
"Memory interference, then?"
A low, slightly husky voice, unhurried and composed. The silver-white-haired upperclassman who had been leaning against the wall finally straightened up, sharpening slightly.
Kiryuuin Fuka had lost her specific memories of The Silence along with the rest of them — but looking at Chris standing there, uniform jacket missing, in just his shirt, holding a student ID he hadn't had time to put away yet, her gaze cleared in an instant.
"Interesting development."
Chris seemed to remember something.
He unlocked his phone, opened his photo gallery, and held it out toward the group — displaying the photos he'd taken of The Silence earlier.
"I'd imagine this creature is the reason."
Looking at the image — The Silence's hands bound inside a pair of women's leather boots, the makeshift rope of twisted clothing across its body — memories that had been sealed away broke back to the surface.
"Oh!"
Kamuro Masumi clapped a hand over her mouth. "I remember now! The faceless man!"
Kiryuuin Fuka's lips curved faintly. Rather than frightened by the strangeness of it all, she seemed — if anything — intrigued.
She turned and walked behind the café counter, making herself at home with the espresso machine with practiced ease. She glanced back at the juniors assembled behind her.
"Now that the immediate danger's passed — coffee?"
"...?"
Kamuro Masumi and Amikura Mako, still somewhere in the middle of processing their shock, stared at each other.
Now? Coffee? Right now?
Shinaa Hiyori, though, took one look at the senior's unruffled composure — and forced herself to follow suit.
"Then... thank you for having us."
Everyone pulled up whatever chairs were nearby and sat down.
Shinaa Hiyori took out her phone and snapped a backup photo of The Silence's image on Chris's screen — then let out a long, deeply relieved breath.
"Here. Coffee."
Kiryuuin Fuka set several steaming cups down in front of the group.
"I take mine strong, so it's all black. If you want milk or sugar, help yourselves."
"Ah... thank you, senpai."
Shinaa Hiyori stood and took her cup.
Without shoes, when she settled back into her chair and the soles of her socked feet found the cold metal rung beneath the seat, she instinctively curled her toes.
That exposed, unprotected sensation — nothing between her foot and the chill — made her faintly uncomfortable.
Especially because her socks had picked up dust from the floor, mixed with the faint warmth of her own perspiration, and under the cold draft from the central air conditioning, the combination had settled into something subtly, persistently itchy.
She endured it. She wrapped both hands around the hot coffee and turned her attention to the formidably composed upperclassman across from her.
"Um, senpai... there's something I've been wondering about, if it's alright to ask."
"The rules for our year's Black Sphere exams mention something called a 'preliminary test' that takes place before the main exam — one that gives you access to hidden intel about what's coming."
"Does that rule exist for the upperclassmen's exams as well?"
Kiryuuin Fuka stirred her coffee with elegant, unhurried motions. The spoon paused, just briefly.
She took a sip.
"Not as far as I know."
"The format for us is mixed across two year groups, but it's essentially a straightforward kill-or-be-killed free-for-all. Survival of the fittest."
"In fact," she said, with an expression that was half a smile and half something sharper, "when it comes to the Black Sphere's hidden mechanics — we probably understand even less than you freshmen do."
"Huh?" Kamuro Masumi blinked. "Same as what Sakayanagi said... so we really are the special case?"
"Perhaps."
Kiryuuin Fuka gave no opinion either way. Her keen eyes swiveled suddenly toward Chris.
"Speaking of which — you."
"You seem completely unbothered by that creature from earlier, or the situation we're in right now."
"Looks like you have some experience with this?"
Finding the spotlight suddenly on him, Chris kept his expression unchanged — and quietly, invisibly, ceased the mildly depraved telekinesis act he'd been running: using his ability to mimic the crawling sensation of an ant making its way across the sole of Shinaa Hiyori's shoeless foot.
"A little experience, I suppose."
Not that he'd say so aloud — but telekinesis was genuinely a godsend for a certain niche appreciation of the feminine foot. No hygiene concerns whatsoever. Pure, uninterrupted enjoyment.
Kiryuuin Fuka raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
"A little? How much is a little?"
Chris raised his right hand and made the gesture Korean men reportedly despise the most — thumb and index finger pinched together, barely a sliver of space between them.
"About... this much."
"Hehehe..."
Kiryuuin Fuka burst out laughing — bright and unguarded, like spring blossoms spilling open across an endless field.
"You're something else." She composed herself, though the amusement didn't fully leave her eyes. "Aren't you worried the president's group might draw the fighting this way? Or that the creature breaks its restraints and comes for us?"
Chris lifted his coffee cup and shrugged with easy indifference.
"We've got no guns, no backup."
"If it comes to that — all I can say is it was bad luck. Heaven wants me dead, and there's nothing to be done about it, is there?"
Shinaa Hiyori heard this, and while enduring the faint, phantom sensation still ghosting across the sole of her foot, she found herself watching the unhurried line of Chris's profile.
Honestly — rather handsome.
But the words themselves, when held up against the reality that she had exactly one life left to her name...
She couldn't quite keep the emotion from creeping in. A faint, helpless weight settled over her chest.
The girl murmured something under her breath, let out a quiet sigh heavy with complicated feeling.
"...Yeah. That's true."
____
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