Ishizaki's Choice

The air in the school grew stiflingly thick during the final week before the old system reports were due.

It was raining outside when Kanzaki Toru opened Ishizaki Daichi's personal file in the library. The May rain was light, tapping rhythmically against the glass and shrouding the campus in a grey mist. He had obtained this file from Horikita after much effort. She had requested it under the guise of an "inter-class collaborative assessment," successfully bypassing the informants Ryuen had planted in the Student Council's disciplinary committee. The file itself was thin; Ishizaki's entrance exam scores were slightly below average, his physical assessment was good, and he had no disciplinary record from middle school. The only notable detail was a single remark: he had been suspended during his third year of middle school for confronting the coach's office, resulting in the loss of his starting position on the basketball team. He never returned to the team after his suspension ended.

He photographed the page and sent it to Horikita with a message: "He didn't play his last year of middle school. Joining the basketball team in high school was his fresh start." Horikita's reply came quickly: "That's why he's more afraid of losing his starting spot than anyone else. Ryuen promised him that position, and now Ryuen has taken it back. That's a massive blow." Kanzaki deleted the record, closed the file, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. It wasn't enough. Knowing what Ishizaki feared didn't mean knowing how to approach him. Ishizaki was currently wary of everyone in Class D; after the incident with Sudo, he clearly went out of his way to avoid them. He would take detours in the hallways and switch to different rows in the cafeteria if he saw Class D students. His state was less like hostility and more like being trapped. He was tied to a sinking ship by Ryuen, but the risk of jumping overboard was too high—he dared not jump, yet he was unwilling to drown. To get him to talk, he needed a neutral setting, an environment where he and a Class D student could coexist naturally without it feeling like a threat.

The basketball court was the ideal choice. It was the only place where he could focus on the game itself and forget about factional opposition.

He sent a message to Hamaguchi Tetsuya. Hamaguchi replied readily: the basketball team had an internal scrimmage this Friday afternoon. The coach was splitting them into teams and was short a player—would he like to come? He replied with a simple "I'll be there." Then, he opened another chat window and sent a brief message to Ishizaki Daichi's school email. No signature, no pleasantries, just one line: "After Friday's practice, by the vending machine outside Court B. Let's talk about the starting lineup."

He knew Ishizaki would come. Because Ryuen wouldn't talk to Ishizaki about the starting lineup. Neither would the others in Class C. Only someone from Class D would—because a starting spot was a bargaining chip Class D could offer, a chip Ryuen no longer held.

Friday afternoon, the basketball gym.

When Kanzaki pushed open the door, the sharp screech of sneakers against the floor and the dull thuds of basketballs hitting the ground rushed to meet him. Hamaguchi was stretching on the sidelines and waved him over, signaling him to join the opposite team. There weren't many people for the internal scrimmage, five per side. The jersey Kanzaki was given was a loaner, and he was on the same team as Hamaguchi. Ishizaki was on the opposing team. He wore his official Class C training gear, a wristband on his left hand, and stood quietly on the sidelines stretching his legs, not patting people on the shoulders during warm-ups as he used to.

Once the game started, Ishizaki's performance was calmer than Kanzaki had anticipated. His wingspan was long on defense, his footwork was quick, and his shoulder width combined with his lower-body strength made his positioning solid. But he was clearly selfish on offense—the ball rarely left his hands once he had it, as if he were trying to prove something through one-on-one plays. Hamaguchi defended him several times, only to be shoved aside by Ishizaki's body each time; on the last play, Ishizaki even drove past him from the side for a layup.

"This guy, he's never this aggressive during regular practice," Hamaguchi said, wiping sweat as he walked over to Kanzaki. "He seems to be holding something in today."

"Let him play," Kanzaki said. "Don't let him stop to think about anything else."

The scrimmage ended quickly. Everyone dispersed to the sidelines, drenched in sweat, to drink water. Ishizaki sat alone by the baseline on the other side, covering his face with a towel, his chest heaving. Hamaguchi and a few teammates were chatting on the other side and didn't notice him. Kanzaki unscrewed a bottle of water and walked over, sitting on the floor one seat away from Ishizaki. Ishizaki lifted a corner of the towel to see him; his expression shifted, but he didn't stand up to leave.

"Does your Class D have a group chat dedicated to figuring out how to kill me?" Ishizaki said, though he felt the words were childish even as he spoke, and he turned his face away.

"No such group. But I have calculated how many more rounds you can last on Ryuen's chessboard," Kanzaki said, taking a sip of water. "In middle school, you confronted the coach's office for a starting spot. In high school, you fell for the same promise again. You stepped into the same trap twice."

Ishizaki's fingers tightened around the towel, his knuckles creaking. But he didn't throw a punch like Sudo. He simply clenched his teeth, released them, and clenched them again.

Kanzaki watched him. Ishizaki and Sudo were different species—Sudo's anger was outward, and Sudo needed someone to stop him from throwing a punch. Ishizaki's anger was inward, and Ryuen was the player driving the needle into his own heart. But Ishizaki wouldn't strike at the player; he would only fall silent and digest it in that silence. People like him didn't need to be stopped; they needed a tool handed to them that would allow them to pry open the cage they were trapped in.

"You didn't have to come today," Ishizaki said suddenly. "I knew it was you when I got the message. No one in Class C would say 'let's talk about the starting lineup' to me. Ryuen wouldn't, Kondo wouldn't. Only you Class D people—only you. But why did you think I would come?"

"Because you still want to play basketball. If you didn't, you wouldn't have come. If you still want to be a starter on this school's basketball team, you have to find someone outside of Ryuen who can help you. And Class D happens to be the only one who can."

Ishizaki was silent for a long time. Another scrimmage had already started on the court, the dull thuds of basketballs bouncing against the floor echoing through the empty gym like a countdown.

"...He said once the Sudo business was finished, the starting spot would be mine. I helped him lure Sudo twice, once to the old school building, once to the Class C dormitory area. The first time was ruined when you set off the alarm. The second time, Sudo held back—he actually held back! If even Sudo Ken can hold back, what am I?" He spoke faster and faster, his voice trembling by the end. "I did so much for him, and in the end, the coach still decides the starting lineup. Ryuen can't influence the team's selection at all; he was just using the starting spot as a front—he's been lying to me the whole time!"

Kanzaki waited for him to stop before speaking: "You have two paths now. First: swallow this and stay on his ship, waiting for him to dangle another carrot the next time he needs you. Second—"

"Don't give me that 'justice and factions' speech," Ishizaki interrupted. "I don't believe in factions. I believe in what's useful to me."

"Then let's talk about what's useful. The inter-class group project deadline is next week. This task carries significant weight in the class point assessment. If you can add a note to the group report about 'misunderstandings in inter-class communication,' allowing both classes to receive some reconciliation points, it will be beneficial for your own personal evaluation." He took a sip of water after finishing. "This isn't about factions. This is about leaving yourself a way out. In case Ryuen decides to discard you one day, at least you'll have a record of settling accounts with Class D in your hands."

Ishizaki didn't answer immediately. He pulled the towel off his head; he was soaked in sweat, his chest still heaving. But the look in his eyes as he stared at the court had changed. He was no longer the lonely defender on the baseline, but someone recalculating the cards in his hand.

"...Do you Class D people always talk in such circles?"

But when he said this, the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. It wasn't mockery; it was the expression of someone who had suddenly grabbed a vine while hanging over an abyss—still doubting if the vine was sturdy, but having already decided to hold on.

Kanzaki didn't continue the topic. He placed the remaining half-bottle of water on the floor next to Ishizaki and stood up. "The group report discussion is in the first-floor study room of the library next week. I'll notify you of the time."

Ishizaki didn't take the water, but he didn't refuse it either. He just stared at the figures dribbling on the court, as if he had pressed a button in some deep, indescribable place within himself.

When Kanzaki walked out of the gym, the rain had stopped. The May evening was washed clean and bright, the puddles on the playground reflecting the orange glow of the sunset, the air filled with the scent of damp grass. He stopped at the vending machine and bought two cans of hot cocoa. He kept one for himself and placed the other on a nearby bench. He knew Karuizawa would pass by this way later on her way to dance club practice. She would glance at the bench every time she passed, though she might not necessarily take it. But it didn't matter if she didn't. He just felt that some things were more efficient when left out rather than held in his hand.

After returning to his dorm, he received a message from Hamaguchi Tetsuya: "Ishizaki stayed on the court to practice shooting alone after training ended, until it was dark. He was still there when I left. This guy used to vanish the moment practice ended; he's been acting strange today." He replied with a simple "Understood."

When night had fully fallen, Shiina Hiyori brought a cup of black tea up to the rooftop. She said the library closed early today, and since she saw him come up while passing the vending machine, she had brewed a cup for him. The aroma of Ceylon tea was exceptionally crisp in the damp air after the rain. She handed him the tea, and when her fingertips brushed the back of his hand, she didn't pull away immediately, lingering for a beat in the shadows where the moonlight couldn't reach before withdrawing to tidy her book bag.

"There was an internal scrimmage at the basketball gym this afternoon. Ryuen sent two people to the sidelines—not to watch the game. They were there to keep an eye on Ishizaki." She lowered her head, gently blowing the steam from her cup. "But you kept just the right distance when you spoke to him. They only captured images of Ishizaki and you on the sidelines, but they couldn't record what you said."

"You can see the perimeter of the gym from the reading room window."

"Yes. So I helped a little—I moved two book carts to block the west corridor, which delayed them for a few minutes while they took a detour." Shiina took a sip of her tea. "Consider it a moment of unmonitored time for Ishizaki." Her tone was as calm as ever, as if she were merely returning a book or organizing a shelf.

Kanzaki held the teacup, looking out at the campus below the rooftop. Streetlights flickered on one by one, painting the black road in patches of warm yellow.

He opened his interface. Shiina Hiyori's latest status had quietly updated: "Quiet Companion—Affinity: 50." Following this was the second reward: "Silent Archive." Description: When interacting with fixed-carrier textual materials, you can filter out distracting information more quickly and extract core contradictions.

He closed the interface and set the teacup gently on the railing. The goddess of the library's gifts were always quiet. Like her tea, it wasn't scalding, but it could warm someone who had stood in the cold rain for too long, from their palms to their pulse. And the chain of evidence for Ishizaki's betrayal that he needed to organize was currently piled up in mountains of textual data. This reward had come at the perfect time.