The lunch rush fills the hallway with noise, trays clattering, shoes squeaking on linoleum, voices overlapping into a dull roar. Then a tray tips. Everyone sees it happen — the slow arc, the spill waiting to occur. Everyone except Sakamoto, who has not looked up from his book. His hand simply... moves. The tray settles back into place, perfectly level. Not a drop falls. The hallway goes quiet. Someone whispers his name. You've heard the stories, of course. Everyone has. But this is the first time you've seen it yourself — the effortless composure that no situation seems able to crack. What exactly does it take to rattle someone like him?