Classroom Of The Elite: Your Lie Last Winter

Chapter 4: Crack On His Mask

My gaze drifted to the stage. One by one, the upperclassmen finished their introductions and stepped down, heading toward the tables set up nearby. Only one remained — sleek black hair, a calculating gaze behind sharp glasses.

He stood at the microphone, eyes calmly sweeping across the first-year students.

A minute passed. Then three. Then five.

Still, he said nothing.

Murmurs began to rise. Then came the laughter. Someone shouted a joke. A few more followed. The tension fractured into noise as the students began to mock, wondering aloud why he had even taken the stage.

Yet the upperclassman remained still — silent, composed.

Gradually, the noise faded, replaced by a charge stillness. Tension coiled through the gymnasium. Words caught in their throats. Disbelief hung in the air, but no one dared to voice out.

Then, at last, he opened his mouth. The words were cliche, yet carried undeniable weight.

“I’m the student council president. My name is Horikita Manabu,” he said.

Then added.

“The student council is looking to recruit potential candidates among the first-year students to replace the graduating third years. Although no special qualifications are required for candidacy, we humbly ask that those considering application not be involved in other club activities. We generally do not accept students involved elsewhere.”

He continued speaking without a single interruption from the hundreds of students. Horikita Manabu didn't merely hold an empty title — he carried real authority.

As he neared the end of his speech, I stepped away from the wall and moved toward the reception area. The crowd remained unnervingly still, their gazes locked into the stage. I slipped through the tension like a shadow, the sound of my own footsteps unusually sharp against the polish floor. It felt as if the room had stopped breathing — suspended in quiet awe or fear, I couldn't tell which.

As I approached the reception table marked with a student council placard, the murmurs slowly resumed behind me soft and scattered, like ripples after a stone dropped into the water.

One of the student council members seated behind the table, a girl with twin-bun styled hair turned to me. 

“Are you interested in joining the student council?” she asked, her voice held a faint irritation.

“Yes,”

She gave a quiet nod, then handed me a clipboard with a neatly clipped form.

“Please fill this out and return it to me when you're done.”

I scanned the form, took the pen, and began writing my details. Just as I finished, she stood up and made her way toward Horikita Manabu, who had just descended the stairs.

They exchanged a few quiet words. At one point he glanced in my direction before turning his attention back to her.

I tried reading their lips, catching fragments of movement, but gave up when someone else stepped into her place.

A boy with sleek black hair, his bangs neatly swept to the right, took my form without a word. His gaze flicked over the page, calm at first, then shifting subtly into disbelief.

He didn't finish reading.

Instead, he removed the form from the clipboard, and handed it back to me.

“You'll be contacted soon,” he said.

His tone was polite, but clipped. Obviously holding his thoughts from slipping out. 

He never looked at me. Not once.

I couldn't say for certain why, but I understood his message.

How dare he?

My fingers lingered at the paper’s edge – rough, dry – something inside me urging to tear it in two.

Whispered threats curled at the back of my mind.

But I didn't move.

Instead, I folded the form in two and slipped it under my arm, and turned away without a word.

The next student in line stepped up, already reaching for the clipboard.

As I walked away, their voice – bright, eager – clashed starkly with the silence I left behind.

My hands clenched into a fist. I’d already given everything just to maintain control.

One step at a time, I moved away quietly, even as something seethed beneath the surface.

But the further I walked, the dimmer my gaze became. 

There had to be somewhere… some place I could let this simmering weight bleed out, just a little.

My shoulder bumped into someone. The folder application slipped from under my arm and hit the floor.

The other person bent down and picked it up. He said something casual, but the voice was oddly familiar.

“Oops, my bad.”

I reached out to take it, my arm steady but nearing its limit.

But instead of handing it back, Yamauchi unfolded the form. He and Ike leaned in, reading it together.

“Dude, this guy is crazy,” Ike muttered.

“You must be out of your mind if you want to join that scary prez group.”

They both nodded, then turned to me.

“Ah, so you didn’t get accepted, huh?” Ike said, tone smug — as if he’d expected it all along.

Yamauchi clapped a hand on my shoulder and grinned. His other hand gave a thumbs-up.

“Well, it’s not like you didn’t see it coming,” he said. “Sometimes it's better to know our place.”

Who?

I didn’t say a word. Still waiting for him to return the form.

“Hey? You alright?” Yamauchi asked, giving my shoulder a shake.

“Get your hands off me,” I said.

“What?” 

Yamauchi leaned forward, his ear almost touched my hair, and laughed.

“Dude, it really messes him up,” he said, turning to Ike.

“That’s a no-no, Ayanokouji,” he said, shaking his head. “Just because you're spoiled, you think you can have everything you want.”

Another tap on my shoulder.

“Heard that? You should be like us —” 

Like you?

His lips kept moving, but I only heard two words.

Know. Your. Place.

I took the form back without asking. Yamauchi let go, blinking – confused by the sudden stillness in my posture.

I turned away.

It wasn't because I was above them.

It was because I’d already sunk lower than they could ever imagine.

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