The Committee of Vipers

The rooftop, which moments before had felt like a revolutionary command center, now felt like a funeral parlor. The four of us stared at my phone, at the email that had so thoroughly and completely dismantled our every plan. It was a digital death warrant for our fledgling resistance.

"She... she can't do that," Asuka stammered, her usual confidence completely gone. "Can she? Can she just... create a committee and force us all to be on it?"

"She's the Student Council President," Yui said, her voice a hollow whisper. "She can 'request' the participation of faculty and student leaders for any 'school-enhancing initiative'. To refuse would be seen as uncooperative and detrimental to the school. She's used the rules, our own good intentions, and our own titles against us. It's... a perfect trap."

"So my new job as Safety Monitor...?" I started.

"Is now irrelevant," Yui finished, a look of bitter defeat on her face. "Why would you need to be Ms. Sato's monitor when you are now the secretary of a committee that includes four faculty members dedicated to safety and welfare? She's made Ms. Sato's power play redundant before it could even be implemented."

Shiori was trembling slightly. "We are all... trapped in a room together. With her in charge."

That was the terrifying truth. Reina hadn't just neutralized us. She had gathered all her rivals, all the chaotic elements swirling around me, and locked them in a single room with her at the head of the table. She hadn't just won the war; she had taken all the enemy generals prisoner and forced them to work for her.

There was nothing we could do. The email was sent. The committee was official. The meeting was tomorrow.

The walk home was a silent, grim procession. The "safety in numbers" that had felt so comforting before now felt like a group of condemned prisoners being led to their execution.

The next day passed in a haze of dread. Every member of the new "Program Enhancement Committee" seemed to be walking on eggshells. I saw Ms. Fujii looking worried, Ms. Mori looking amused and intrigued, and Asuka looking furious. Ms. Kimura, when I saw her in the library, simply gave me a cool, enigmatic look that said, 'So, the game has become more interesting.'

After school, the fateful hour arrived. I walked with Asuka to the designated meeting place: the main school conference room, the site of the "Pastry Incident." It felt like returning to the scene of a crime.

The other members were already there, seated around the long, polished table. The seating arrangement itself was a masterclass in psychological warfare. Reina sat at the head of the table, the seat of absolute power. She had placed me, the "secretary," in the chair directly to her right, marking me as her possession.

To her left sat Ms. Mori, her predatory amusement barely concealed. Next to her was Ms. Fujii, looking gentle and concerned. Across from them sat Ms. Kimura, her expression cool and unreadable, and next to her was a fuming Asuka Miyamoto. It was a table of vipers, lionesses, and one very, very scared gazelle.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Reina began, her voice smooth as silk, a benevolent queen addressing her royal court. "As you know, after the... unfortunate incident involving Kato-kun, it became clear that our otherwise successful program requires a more robust oversight structure. This committee's purpose is to ensure that such lapses never occur again."

She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on each faculty member in turn. "I have gathered you all here because you represent the pillars of student welfare. Health," she nodded to Ms. Mori. "Emotional support," she nodded to Ms. Fujii. "Intellectual environment," she nodded to Ms. Kimura. "And physical well-being," she finished, nodding to a scowling Asuka.

It was brilliant. She was flattering them, acknowledging their domains, all while subsuming them under her own authority.

"Our first order of business," Reina continued, "is to hear a formal report on the incident. Assistant Tanaka, as the student leader closest to the event, please provide the committee with your official account."

Every eye in the room turned to me. This was it. The trap was sprung. She was forcing me to recount the most humiliating and chaotic moment of my life in front of all the people who had caused it. She was testing my loyalty, seeing if I would dare to cast blame or show favor.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Yui's campaign advice felt like a distant memory. I was alone in the viper pit. I took a deep breath.

"Thank you, President Kujou," I began, my voice surprisingly steady. I fell back on the only persona that had ever worked: The Humble, Overwhelmed Bureaucrat. "On the day of the incident, my assigned mentee, Kato-kun, expressed significant anxiety regarding an upcoming presentation. In my capacity as his mentor, I offered to provide some after-hours, low-stakes practice."

I recounted the events in a flat, neutral, fact-based monotone. I didn't use emotional language. I didn't place blame. I framed everyone's intervention as a "well-intentioned offer of support."

"...Ms. Fujii offered hydration, a key component of student wellness," I recited.

"...President Kujou arrived to observe mentorship techniques for program-wide implementation."

"...Miyamoto-senpai offered athletic consultation on the physical aspects of public speaking."

"...Nurse Mori offered pre-emptive medical oversight due to the student's expressed anxiety."

I had described a scene of utter chaos as a beautiful symphony of inter-departmental cooperation. I had taken Reina's own PR spin and fed it back to her.

When I finished, the room was silent. I had given them nothing. I had praised everyone and blamed no one.

Ms. Mori was the first to break the silence, a slow, appreciative clap echoing in the room. "Bravo, Tanaka-kun," she purred. "What a wonderfully... diplomatic report. You have a future in politics."

Reina's eyes, however, were narrowed. I had passed her test, but not in the way she expected. I hadn't groveled. I hadn't broken. I had navigated her trap with a skill she hadn't anticipated.

"Thank you for that... comprehensive summary, Assistant Tanaka," she said, her voice tight. "It is clear that the primary issue was an 'over-abundance of support' focused on a single point. Therefore, to prevent such future occurrences, this committee's first directive will be to formalize and structure all student-teacher interactions within the program."

She slid a document across the table. "I have drafted a proposal. 'The Structured Support Initiative'."

My blood ran cold as I read the key points.

All one-on-one student-teacher interactions during program hours must be pre-scheduled and approved by the committee chair (Reina).

Faculty members are to remain within their designated 'zones of expertise' (e.g., the nurse's station, the library circulation desk).

Student leaders (Asuka) are to engage with participants only during their scheduled activity.

It was a lockdown. A complete restriction of movement and interaction for every single one of her rivals. She was using the incident I had caused to justify imposing a set of rules that gave her absolute control over everyone's movements. She was putting all the other vipers in cages.

All except one.

The proposal did not mention the "Special Assistant to the President." As her direct subordinate, I was exempt. I would still be required to move freely, at her side, as her duties required.

She wasn't just caging her rivals. She was isolating me with them, ensuring that I was the only one she could freely interact with.

It was the most audacious power grab yet.

The teachers read the proposal, their expressions hardening. They understood immediately what was happening. They were being neutered, their ability to 'support' me officially curtailed.

"This seems... rather restrictive, President Kujou," Ms. Kimura commented, her voice dangerously cool. "Are you suggesting that faculty members can no longer offer spontaneous assistance to students in need?"

"Of course not," Reina replied smoothly. "I am merely suggesting we provide a structure to ensure that no single student is overwhelmed by our collective enthusiasm. It is for their own protection. For Kaito-kun's protection."

She had just framed her tyrannical power grab as an act of benevolent protection for me. She had made me the reason for their imprisonment.

The room was silent, the five powerful women locked in a battle of wills. Reina had them trapped. If they argued against the proposal, they would look like they were arguing for the right to overwhelm a student.

Checkmate.

Or so she thought.

"An excellent proposal, President Kujou."

Every head turned to me. I had spoken without thinking, the words of my campaign manager echoing in my head. Find the loophole. Use the rules against her.

"A structure is exactly what we need," I continued, my voice gaining a strange, new confidence. "However, I believe there is one small oversight."

Reina stared at me, her eyes narrowing. "Oh?"

"The proposal outlines the roles of faculty and student leaders," I said, my heart pounding. "But it does not address the vital role of peer-to-peer support. For example, my classmate, Yui Hamasaki. She has been an invaluable, informal study partner to me and several other students. A structure that discourages such positive, organic collaboration could be detrimental to the program's core goal."

I looked Reina dead in the eye. "I would like to formally propose an amendment. The creation of a 'Peer Liaison' position. A student volunteer, not affiliated with any club or committee, who can move freely between study groups to offer support and facilitate communication. I would like to nominate Yui Hamasaki for the role."

Silence.

Absolute, deafening, world-shattering silence.

I had just used Reina's own committee, her own proposal, her own logic, to try and grant my campaign manager an official, all-access pass to her perfect, locked-down prison.

Reina Kujou stared at me, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated disbelief.

The pawn had just tried to promote itself to a queen.