Fujiwara Chika leaned in, her curiosity undimmed.
"So, Masao-kun, what year are you in?"
"First year," he replied.
"I'm a second-year! Which means," she announced, a triumphant gleam in her eye, "you should call me 'senpai'."
In her mind, the hierarchy was already established. Masao was her kouhai, her adorable junior. Hearing that title of respect would be a sweet validation of her seniority.
Masao, however, met her sparkling gaze with a flat refusal.
"I refuse."
He had no intention of giving Fujiwara Chika that kind of satisfaction, especially since she carried herself with all the dignity of a hyperactive puppy, not a respectable upperclassman.
"Whyy~?!" she protested, her smile vanishing. She demanded an explanation.
His logic was simple and unassailable. "We don't even go to the same school. You're not my senpai."
It was a perfect, airtight defense. But Chika was not operating on logic. She was operating on a singular, burning desire.
Abandoning reason, she switched to tactical sweetness.
"Oh, what's the big deal?" she said, wagging a finger as if explaining a fundamental law of the universe. "Show me the law that says you can't call someone from another school 'senpai'! All students in Japan are comrades-in-arms in education! Therefore, anyone in a higher grade is your senior."
"An impressive argument, Fujiwara-san," Masao conceded, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Hehe! So, Masao-kun...?" She turned her full, radiant, and expectant attention back on him.
"But," he countered, deftly turning her own magic against her, "can you show me the law that says that I must call a senior 'senpai'?"
Chika's victorious smile shattered. Her cheeks puffed out like a disgruntled chipmunk.
"Masao-kun, you're so mean! You're just teasing me now! I don't care, I don't care! I want to hear you call me senpai!"
With both charm and logic defeated, she unleashed her ultimate technique: the full-bodied tantrum.
Her voice rose in pitch as she shook her head, a whirlwind of denial that refused to process any sound but the one she craved.
Witnessing this spectacle, Masao felt a sense of helplessness.
'She wants to be the Prime Minister of Japan one day? I'm starting to believe she has the raw talent for it.'
He could feel the stares from the other two people in the shop. The secondhand embarrassment made his ears burn.
'Why am I the one feeling shame when she's the one making a scene? It must be because my soul is still pure and easily flustered.'
Defeated by the social pressure, he finally muttered, "Se... Senpai."
"What was that? I didn't quite hear you!" she pressed.
Masao took a deep, resigned breath, closed his eyes, and spoke more clearly.
"Fujiwara-senpai."
Satisfaction washed over her. A beatific, almost motherly smile graced her lips as she reached over and gave a gentle, patronizing pat a few inches above his head.
"Good, good, my dear kouhai."
Under the table, Masao's fist clenched. 'This isn't over. I swear, I will have my revenge.'
Their standoff was interrupted by the arrival of their ramen. Having entered the shop in quick succession, all the bowls for the three customers were served at once.
The sight of the beautifully arranged bowl before her made Chika's legs swing with renewed vigor beneath her stool.
"It smells incredible! I'm going to eat well!" she declared, snapping her disposable chopsticks apart with gusto.
Masao, too, had to swallow at the rich, savory aroma wafting from his own bowl.
As he broke his chopsticks apart, a brilliantly devilish idea sparked in his mind, curling his lips into a sly grin.
He used his chopsticks to pick up a slice of chashu pork from his own bowl, extending it towards Chika as if making a generous offering.
"Fujiwara-senpai, would you like some chashu?"
Chika, who had been poised to dive into her own ramen, turned. Her eyes locked onto the glistening slice of roasted pork in his grasp. A deep internal struggle commenced.
She wanted it, oh how she wanted it. But she was the senpai. A mature, gracious upperclassman does not accept the best morsel from her junior's bowl.
"No, thank you, Kouhai," she said, forcing a magnanimous smile that she hoped radiated mature charm. "You should enjoy it."
"Okay, I will."
In a move of breathtaking audacity, Masao's chopsticks didn't retreat. Instead, they darted like a striking serpent into Chika's bowl, snatching her own slice of chashu and laying it neatly into his own.
Chika: (・_・?) ?
She stared, dumbfounded, as the prize was stolen right from under her nose. Her brain struggled to process the betrayal.
Her eyes darted from her own now-porkless bowl to Masao's, which now had two glorious slices of meat.
Confronted with his innocent and polite smile, the full extent of his scheme finally dawned on her.
Retribution. It was the only thought that burned in her mind.
"Masao-kouhai," she began, her voice dripping with honeyed sweetness. "Do you want the marinated egg?"
It was the second-best topping in the bowl, the creamy, savory heart of the ramen.
"Ah, yes, I do. Thank you, Senpai."
Once again, with flawless courtesy, Masao's chopsticks shot out, plucking the perfectly halved, amber-yolked egg from her ramen and adding it to his growing treasure trove.
Chika: (・_・?) ?
She stared again at his serene face, then at his bowl—now a mountain of premium toppings—and finally at her own, a barren bowl of broth, noodles, and a few lonely strands of ginger and green onion.
A ringing silence descended upon the ramen shop. Everyone but Masao seemed frozen in time, suspended in a state of shock.
Saburo Kojima, the other customer, was stupefied.
He had been quietly observing the pair's lively banter, a nostalgic "Ah, youth," playing in his mind. But this? This was unprecedented. His jaw nearly hit the counter.
'He took her chashu... and then her egg? He's taken the very soul of the ramen! This boy is a culinary deviant, a menace to ramen connoisseurs! The poor girl... she looks so broken. How do you possibly recover from this?'
His own steaming bowl was completely forgotten, his entire world narrowed to the dramatic scene playing out beside him.
Even the ramen master, a man who had seen decades of drama from behind his counter, had subtly turned, his professional stoicism cracked by sheer fascination.
No one, absolutely no one, can resist a front-row seat to a masterfully executed, high-stakes drama.
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