The classroom clock ticked with cruel precision, slicing the silence between each sentence the teacher scrawled across the whiteboard.
Kotarō sat still, unmoving except for the slow drag of his pencil across paper. He wasn't writing anything—just drawing faint horizontal lines between the ridges of the page. In front of him, the board filled with phrases like "State your opinion," "Support with reasons," and "Conclude with impact."
It was English class. The one subject that should feel like home turf. But every word sounded weaponized today.
"They're doing this on purpose. It has to be a coincidence. But still—'support with reasons'? Really?"
Each chalk stroke felt like a reminder of what awaited him after school. The words 'debate team' hadn't been spoken aloud in class since yesterday's announcement, but they echoed in his head anyway. A feedback loop of dread.
He cast a glance sideways.
Haruka Shizune was flipping through her notebook without a care in the world. She looked composed. Effortless. Like being chosen was just another Tuesday.
"Still glowing. Still real. Still terrifying."
When the bell rang, it came as both a relief and a sentence. Students stretched and laughed, chairs scraped the floor, and someone behind him muttered something about Haruka carrying the team.
Another voice chimed in: "Who's the third kid again?"
"The third kid. That's me. I should get a name tag: Reserve Oxygen Consumer."
Kotarō was mid-bite when a shadow fell over his desk.
"Library. After school. Just basic prep."
Haruka's voice. No buildup. No small talk. She delivered the line like a news anchor—neutral, brisk.
He looked up with a half-full mouth and met her eyes. She tilted her head slightly.
"Don't worry," she added, a subtle smirk tugging at her mouth. "I won't throw you into the opening speech... unless you ghost me."
He swallowed and nodded.
"That was a joke. Probably. Eighty percent. But there's a twenty percent chance she means it, and my neck just signed the contract."
She pointed upward.
"Second floor. Quiet study room. Be there."
She turned to go, then added, almost as an afterthought:
"Watanabe-kun said he might not come. Doesn't like prep stuff. As long as he shows up on the day, it's fine."
"Right. The third guy. A seat-filler with a pulse. Good. Let's keep it that way."
He lingered outside the staff room, rereading his own thoughts.
"Just tell him. Be honest. Say you can't do it. You're not built for it. No one wants a second speaker who sounds like he's buffering."
He inhaled, stepped inside.
"I was thinking... I mean, if it's possible to... maybe someone else could..."
Mr. Takeda didn't let him finish. His face lit up with approval.
"You're already thinking ahead? That's the spirit! Most kids wait until the week of. I knew you had potential, Nozomi-kun."
Kotarō opened his mouth, but the words died somewhere behind his teeth.
Takeda turned to his desk and retrieved a thick packet of papers. He placed them in Kotarō's hands like a treasure map.
"Here. It's all in there—timing, speech breakdown, judging criteria. Everything you need to stay ahead."
Takeda scribbled something on a desk calendar as Kotarō retreated. He caught a glimpse:
Kotarō = motivated?
"I came to quit. I left with homework."
Haruka was already at the table when he arrived. Two chairs, two folders, and one girl who looked like she belonged in every room she entered.
"You're not late. Good start," she said without looking up.
Kotarō sat down like someone about to be evaluated.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she added.
"I almost didn't," he replied.
She smiled slightly. "Fear of being drafted into the opening speech again?"
He didn't respond. She slid her highlighted copy of the debate packet toward him.
"Watanabe's not coming, by the way," she said casually. "Didn't seem interested."
"So our team is officially a duo with a benchwarmer. Fine by me."
"You know the format already?"
He shrugged. "I read things."
"Perfect. You'll survive. Maybe even impress."
He highly doubted that.
She flipped to the first page and began walking him through it.
Debate Format – School Adaptation
Model: Based on HEnDA / World Schools / Parliamentary hybrid formats
Team Size: 3 speakers per team
Sides: Affirmative vs Negative
Speech Order:
Constructive Speech (3 minutes)
Rebuttal Speech (3 minutes)
Summary / Closing Speech (2–3 minutes)
School Version Notes:
No POIs (Points of Information)
No crossfire questioning
Fixed speech slots
Speaker Roles:
First Speaker: Defines terms, introduces arguments
Second Speaker: Rebuts opponent, strengthens team's logic
Third Speaker: Summarizes clash points, closes round
Judging Rubric (100 pts total):
Logic & Relevance: 30 points
Structure & Flow: 25 points
Fluency & Language Use: 20 points
Team Coordination: 15 points
Responsiveness: 10 points
She tapped her pen against the rubric.
"You're second speaker, right? That's rebuttal. Hardest role, in my opinion. You have to clean up everyone else's mess and still sound convincing."
He looked at the scoring categories like they were a set of traps.
"Thirty percent logic. Twenty percent fluency. That leaves half the score for things I can't do on command."
"It's not as scary as it looks," she said, noticing his silence. "Debate's just structured disagreement. Do it right, and even losing sounds smart."
"I don't want to sound smart. I want to not be seen."
She continued.
"In real tournaments, you get longer times, POIs, crossfire. But here it's trimmed down. Makes things easier for the audience—and harder to improvise."
"So... a simplified spotlight."
"Exactly."
She leaned back, arms crossed lightly.
"Have you ever watched real matches?"
"Oxford. Mostly. Some YouTube club debates."
"So you know more than most. That helps."
He doubted that.
"You speak less than you think," she said suddenly.
He looked at her. "What?"
"I can tell. You're analyzing, but you hold it in. That works on paper. Not here."
"Being read like a book. That's ironic."
On the walk home, the packet stayed unopened in his bag. The rhythm of his footsteps matched the thud of each internal beat.
"Constructive. Rebuttal. Summary. Silence. Hesitation. Regret."
A cram school billboard blared from across the street:
"Speak. Lead. Win."
"I haven't even spoken. I'm already being led. Winning is not even on the menu."
The streetlight turned green.
He moved forward.
"I didn't say yes. But apparently, silence is fluent in agreement."