Sunlight flooded through the store's expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a brilliant sheen over the meticulously organized aisles. The campus store at Koudo Ikusei was less a convenience shop and more a high-end department store, the air thick with the scent of fresh packaging and a faint, expensive fragrance.
Ayanokoji Kiyotaka pushed a chrome shopping cart, his gaze drifting over the shelves with clinical detachment. He selected the bare essentials: a towel, a toothbrush, laundry detergent. He chose mid-priced, utilitarian brands—not out of necessity, but out of a deep-seated habit of remaining unremarkable. With a monthly stipend of 100,000 points, such purchases were a drop in the ocean, yet he moved with the caution of a man on a fixed income.
"Another annoying coincidence," a voice like a winter frost sounded beside him.
Ayanokoji turned. Horikita Suzune stood by the adjacent shelf, her posture as rigid as a ruler. She spared him a brief, chilly glance before returning her focus to the display. In her hand, she held a bottle of the most basic, scentless shower gel. Her basket already contained the cheapest toothbrush available and a plain white towel.
"Don't be so wary of me," Ayanokoji said, his voice a flat line. "We're desk mates; it's only natural we'd run into each other." He paused, his gaze lingering on the starkly economical items in her basket. "Although we've spoken in class, I still don't know your name. It wouldn't hurt to tell me, would it?"
Horikita's fingertips traced a row of shower gel bottles, ultimately settling on the most colorless, generic option. Her voice remained sharp. "It's within my rights to refuse, isn't it?"
"Desk mates who don't know each other's names," Ayanokoji replied, stating it as an objective, somewhat awkward truth, "is a bit strange."
Horikita's hand faltered. She seemed caught off guard by his blunt, almost clumsy persistence. After a moment of silence, she spoke with the tone of someone completing a tedious chore. "Horikita Suzune."
Without another word, she dropped the gel into her basket and turned away.
"Horikita..." Ayanokoji repeated softly. The name shared a surname with the Student Council President, a detail he filed away behind his blank expression. He looked at her "meager" selections once more. "Since the points were already provided, why not try something a bit more premium? Experiencing a higher quality of life isn't necessarily a bad thing."
He offered her a bottle of elegantly packaged, scented wash. Horikita didn't even look at it. She pushed her cart toward the checkout, her burgundy blazer exuding a stubborn, isolated coldness. "There is no need."
Ayanokoji watched her retreat, then quietly replaced the expensive bottle on the shelf. He followed her toward the checkout area, where a modest line had formed.
As he stood a few paces behind her, his attention was suddenly snared by a figure at the entrance.
Sakamoto.
Ayanokoji's eyes narrowed. He had already confirmed the boy's identity: First Year Class A.
Sakamoto walked into the store with a gait that suggested he was strolling through a private gallery rather than a convenience mart. He didn't take a cart. He didn't take a basket. His hands remained at his sides, his gaze behind his black-rimmed glasses sweeping over the store with a calm, appreciative air.
He ignored the aisles of luxury goods and high-end electronics. Instead, he navigated directly to the store's most inconspicuous corner—a small, plain shelf marked with a sign that read: Free Pick-Up Zone.
Ayanokoji recalled the handbook's mention of free necessities—the absolute bare minimum for those without points, items of the lowest quality and aesthetic.
Sakamoto stopped before the shelf. There was no hesitation, no shame.
He extended his slender fingers with the precision of a surgeon. He picked up a rectangular bar of plain white soap as if it were a rare piece of mutton-fat jade. His fingertips brushed the surface before a subtle flick of the wrist sent the soap settling perfectly into his open left palm.
Next, he claimed a basic, plastic-handled toothbrush. He didn't inspect the bristles; instead, he pinched the handle between his thumb and forefinger, twirling it with the effortless grace of a fountain pen. Finally, he took a bottle of clear, generic shampoo. He didn't grab the bottle; he cradled the base with three fingers, his pinky slightly raised, as if holding a porcelain cup of sake.
Sakamoto used no bag.
His left palm held the soap; his right hand balanced the toothbrush and the shampoo bottle with impossible stability. The three free items were transformed into artifacts of high art by the mere way he carried them. He stood tall, a pillar of serene composure, appearing as though he held the crown jewels rather than the school's charity.
Ahead in the line, Horikita Suzune sensed the shift in the air. She glanced back toward the free zone. Upon seeing Sakamoto and his meager haul, a complex ripple of emotion crossed her face. She knew he was from Class A—the elite of the elite—and to see him handle the cheapest items in the school with such undeniable, baffling elegance left her visibly shaken. Her grip on her own shopping basket tightened, her lips parting as if to ask the question burning in everyone's mind.
But the words wouldn't come.
Sakamoto had completed his "shopping." He didn't head for the registers. He didn't look at the other students. He simply turned, his gaze sweeping over the exit.
He stepped forward. His pace was steady and fluid, each step a measured masterpiece. With the soap in his left hand and the bottle and brush in his right, he moved with the leisure of a man who owned the very air he breathed. The afternoon sun gilded his silhouette as he passed through the automatic doors, leaving only the faint, clean scent of unscented soap in his wake.
Hushed whispers broke out among the students at the checkout.
"Was that the guy from Class A? He's so... cool." "Why didn't he pay? Oh, right, those were the free items..." "He made that cheap soap look like a luxury brand."
Ayanokoji looked toward the empty doorway, then down at his mid-range products, and finally at Horikita's bargain-bin selections. Horikita remained rooted to the spot, her cool profile still turned toward the exit, a deep, lingering confusion clouding her eyes.
She, like everyone else, had just witnessed the impossible: a man who had mastered the art of being "elite" while possessing absolutely nothing.