The lunchtime encounter with Nana Hiiragi left Arthur feeling raw and exposed. Her ability to mask her true nature behind such a dazzling facade of innocent charm was profoundly unsettling. He knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his gut, that she had filed away every detail of his fabricated “vision,” and would be dissecting it for any hint of threat or exploitable weakness. His decision to put himself forward for class representative now felt even more reckless, but also, paradoxically, more necessary. He needed to understand how she operated in a position of influence, however minor.

The day and a half leading up to the vote was an uncomfortable lesson in social dynamics for Arthur. The other serious contender, Inori Tamaki, the sharp-eyed girl with the severe ponytail, campaigned with earnest efficiency. She spoke logically about her organizational skills, her desire for a fair and well-run class, and her commitment to representing student concerns to the teachers. She garnered a respectable amount of quiet support from the more studious and pragmatic members of the class.

Then there was Nana Hiiragi. She didn’t so much “campaign” as weave a subtle, irresistible web of charm. She seemed to be everywhere at once, a whirlwind of perfectly pitched compliments and thoughtful gestures. She learned names with astonishing speed, remembered trivial details about classmates’ hobbies – a favorite manga series here, a struggling subject there – and offered to help with homework (though Arthur, watching closely, noticed she often then subtly delegated the actual work to other admirers). When she spoke to someone, she made them feel like they were, for that moment, the most important, most interesting person in the room. Her promises for her tenure as class representative were vague but universally appealing – a more fun, more inclusive class environment, more activities, a stronger sense of unity. It was a masterful performance, and Arthur, watching her, felt a kind of horrified admiration. She was a natural politician, a born manipulator wrapped in a veneer of utterly adorable sincerity.

Arthur’s own “campaign,” by stark contrast, was a masterclass in awkwardness. He made no speeches, offered no grand promises. His efforts consisted mostly of him standing near groups of students during breaks, occasionally offering a stilted, phone-translated comment if directly addressed, or a clumsy nod if someone caught his eye. He’d initially entertained the idea of trying to rally some support, perhaps making a vague, unsettling promise about using his “Chrono-Empathic Glimpse” for the vague benefit of the class’s future, but the words felt hollow, dangerous, and far too likely to backfire. His primary reason for even putting his name forward remained largely internal: to observe Nana more closely as she vied for influence, and perhaps, in some small, almost imperceptible way, to signal to Nanao Nakajima – who seemed to shrink visibly whenever the topic of leadership arose – that not everyone who sought a position of authority was an overwhelming force of charisma. He’d hoped his own unlikely, ill-equipped candidacy might make Nanao feel slightly less isolated in his timidity.

Nana, naturally, with her acute social antennae, noticed his continued, if quiet, presence in the running. During a break between classes, as Arthur was trying to decipher a particularly complex kanji in his textbook, she approached his desk, her expression one of perfectly crafted, almost sisterly concern.

“Tanaka-kun,” she began, her voice soft and melodious, “I was just thinking… are you absolutely sure you want the burden of being class representative? It really does take up so much time, you know, with meetings and organizing things. And there’s an awful lot of… well, social effort involved.” She tilted her head, her violet eyes wide with feigned sympathy. “With your communication being through your phone, it might be terribly stressful for you. I’d hate to see you overwhelmed.”

Arthur met her gaze for a moment, seeing the glint of calculation behind the concern. He looked down at his phone, typed a brief reply. “Responsibility is… sometimes necessary, Hiiragi-san,” the synthesized voice stated, deliberately opaque. He didn’t elaborate.

Nana’s smile didn’t falter, but he saw a new flicker of something – annoyance? Reassessment? – in her eyes. “Of course, Tanaka-kun,” she said smoothly, her voice still dripping with false sweetness. “Just looking out for a fellow new student.” She gave a little wave and flitted off to charm another group.

Over the next twenty-four hours, Arthur began to notice subtle shifts in how other students interacted with him. When he tried to join a conversation, even with his phone ready, one of the participants would suddenly remember an urgent task elsewhere. He overheard snippets – or rather, his phone, with its microphone active, caught stray Japanese phrases that it dutifully translated on his screen when he reviewed the ambient audio later: “Tanaka-kun is a bit… strange, isn’t he? Always so quiet, with that machine…” or “Can we really rely on someone who needs a phone to talk for him to speak _for us_?” and even, more pointedly, “I heard his ‘Talent’ makes him moody and unpredictable. What if he has a bad ‘glimpse’ about a class trip or something?”

The comments were always deniable, never directly attributable to Nana, but their timing was impeccable, their effect insidious. She was isolating him, not with overt aggression, but with carefully planted seeds of doubt and discomfort, painting him as an unreliable eccentric. It was unnervingly effective. He felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach; he’d hoped to remain a minor curiosity, but her actions suggested she was already taking him more seriously, as a potential irritant, than he liked. This wasn't just about winning a symbolic vote for her; it was about ensuring no unpredictable elements, however minor, remained within her sphere of influence. She was methodically clearing the board.

Finally, the last period of the next day arrived. Mr. Saito, with his usual slightly flustered cheerfulness, produced a small, slotted wooden box. “Alright class,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “Time to cast your votes for your new class representative! Please write the name of your chosen candidate clearly on the slip of paper I’ll provide, fold it once, and then come up to place it in the ballot box.”

Small slips of paper were distributed. Arthur stared at his for a moment. He had no illusions about his own chances, nor, if he was honest with himself, did he particularly want the job. His candidacy had served its quiet, observational purpose. He carefully wrote ‘Inori Tamaki’ in hesitant katakana, then folded the paper. As the students filed up row by row to deposit their votes, he watched Nana. She dropped her own slip into the box with a confident, radiant smile, even offering a cheerful little wave to Mr. Saito, who beamed back.

The counting was swift and public. Mr. Saito, with the surprisingly willing assistance of Inori Tamaki herself (a sign of her own good sportsmanship, Arthur thought, or perhaps a subtle power play by Saito to demonstrate impartiality), tallied the votes on the chalkboard. The chalk clicked with a steady rhythm.

The results were, to Arthur, hardly surprising, though the decisiveness was still a little startling. Inori Tamaki: 8 votes. Kenji Tanaka: 1 vote. (Arthur felt a small, inexplicable pang. He suspected, with a strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment, that it was a pity vote from Nanao Nakajima, or perhaps even a mistake by someone else.) Nana Hiiragi: 21 votes. (The remaining students in their class of thirty).

“And the winner, by a very significant majority, is Hiiragi Nana-san!” Mr. Saito declared, leading a vigorous round of applause. “Congratulations, Hiiragi-san!”

Nana beamed, her eyes sparkling as she stood to accept the accolade, bowing graciously to the class. “Thank you, everyone! Thank you so much! I promise I’ll do my very best to represent you all and help make this a truly fantastic and memorable year for us all!” Her voice was full of earnest sincerity.

Arthur felt a strange cocktail of emotions. There was an undeniable surge of relief; the thought of actually having to perform the duties of class representative, with his profound communication handicap and utter lack of understanding of their school’s social labyrinth, was daunting. But beneath that relief was a profound, chilling sense of unease. Nana’s victory had been a foregone conclusion from the moment she’d entered the classroom, but the subtle, almost surgically precise way she had neutralized him as even a token competitor was a stark lesson. He had wanted to understand how she operated, and he’d received a masterclass in social engineering and covert manipulation. The downside was now glaringly clear: he was definitely, irrevocably on her radar, marked as someone who didn’t quite fit, someone who had, however ineptly and briefly, stood in the path of her ambition.

“And in other exciting news,” Mr. Saito continued, his voice full of oblivious good cheer after the applause for Nana had finally died down, “please do remember that at the end of this school year, we’ll be having our traditional leaving party for those students who might be moving on to other pursuits! It’s always a wonderful highlight of the academic calendar, a chance to celebrate our achievements together!”

Arthur almost snorted aloud, a bitter, mirthless sound he barely managed to suppress. A leaving party. The irony was a palpable, acrid taste in his mouth. There would be plenty of students “leaving” this island well before the end of the year, he knew with a sickening certainty, and their departures would be anything but voluntary or celebratory. He glanced at Nanao, who was looking at the newly elected Class Representative Hiiragi with an expression of timid, almost hero-worshipping admiration. Arthur’s jaw tightened. He might have lost this meaningless vote, but the real struggle, the one for Nanao’s life and the lives of so many others in this classroom, had barely begun. He had to be smarter, more careful, and somehow find a way to use his terrible, fragmented knowledge before it was too late. And Nana Hiiragi, now armed with a modicum of official power, would be watching his every move.