Shimizu Akira was about to tap his access card against Room 402's sensor when the door to Room 401 slid open silently.
A brown-haired boy stepped out, his expression blank.
Their eyes met in the narrow hallway.
Shimizu recognized him instantly—Ayanokōji Kiyotaka, the classmate whose painfully awkward self-introduction had earned him the label "so introverted it's concerning" (at least according to Ike Kanji).
Ayanokōji's gaze was eerily placid, showing neither surprise at the encounter nor any intention to greet him.
Shimizu's hand paused mid-air.
The aura this boy exuded wasn't just introversion—it was something far more deliberate.
Like calm waters masking treacherous undercurrents, his stillness felt instinctively dangerous.
Introverted and reserved might sound similar, but their meanings were worlds apart.
Introversion was an inability to express.
Reserve was a choice not to.
This classmate was undoubtedly the latter.
(This Ayanokōji guy… doesn't seem as simple as he lets on. Could it be? Is everyone in Class D hiding something?)
By the time Shimizu snapped out of his thoughts, Ayanokōji had already moved toward the elevator with mechanical precision.
Shimizu ultimately let it go.
They were classmates, separated only by Horikita Suzune—there'd be chances to talk later.
The dorm room surpassed expectations.
Sunlight streamed through wide windows, the private bathroom was spotless, and an AC unit hummed quietly on the wall.
His attention snagged on the landline phone atop the bedside table.
Flipping open the dorm manual, he skimmed past trash schedules and curfews until a particular note caught his eye:
『Room phones can contact front desk services. In emergencies, classmates may also be reached.』
His eyes widened slightly.
"Emergencies"—like having no points left for a cellphone, perhaps?
If every room had the same system, and the front desk logged all student info…
He could theoretically call any classmate with the right pretext.
Not that it mattered yet—his social circle was small enough to count on one hand.
(But this could be useful someday…)
He filed the detail away mentally.
The early April heat had left his back damp with sweat.
Despite the stifling room, he resisted turning on the AC—adhering to Saitama's no-AC training principle—and opted for a cold shower instead.
Stepping out minutes later, he wiped the fogged mirror.
His reflection showed a lean, athletic build—six-pack abs clearly defined but not overly bulky, more streamlined panther than bodybuilder.
With today's workout done, he tossed his uniform into the laundry basket and swept the floor briskly.
By 11:30 AM, his stomach growled in protest.
"Time for lunch."
The cafeteria's noise hit him the moment he pushed through the glass doors.
The space was vast, with high ceilings and enough seating for the entire student body.
His gaze snagged on two things:
The crowded paid-meal lines.
The near-empty free-meal corner.
No "three-item limit" signs here—the school wouldn't let students starve, even if they ran out of points.
Then, a flame-haired boy caught his attention.
The guy—clearly from Class C (Shimizu remembered him at the ceremony)—was talking to older students by the free window, gesturing toward the premium restaurant upstairs.
Nearby, a pink-haired girl (Class B's vanguard) chatted with senior girls.
Despite the uniform, she carried an unmistakable allure—whether in the delicate collarbone peeking from her loosened collar or the hint of thigh beneath her skirt.
Shimizu's eyes narrowed.
(C and B Class are already gathering intel from seniors?)
(Seems other classes have their strategists too…)