"Why don't we make this interesting?"

Once settled into their stations, the crowd's chitchat settling to white noise, Ryoma flashed an uppity smirk in Hayate's direction.

"Redhead."

"Are you referring to me?" Mr. Oto gestured to himself. "It's me, isn't it?"

"Who else would it be?" He rolled his eyes. "Choose our main ingredient."

"Ingredient, as in...?"

He scrambled to understand the novel request, glancing at the audience then the judges for emphasis.

"The same main ingredient of a dish can differ drastically depending on how the chef decides to utilize it," one judge spoke out. "Are you suggesting this to even the playing fields?"

"Unless I give a loser like him an advantage like this, he'll be crushed beyond repair." He shrugged. "Consider this an act of kindness, crybaby. That's only if you can stop trembling long enough to pick up a utensil to bake."

"Um, technically I'm the one running the show," Mr. Oto coughed. "We can't have you changing up the rules whenever you see fit. But, in the spirit of friendly competition, if Participant Inoue gives consent, there should be no harm in proceeding."

Regardless of his taunt, Hayate trembled like a harp full strung. He gripped the counter for dear life, knuckles whitened as if it was the sole thread keeping him on his feet. The piercing stares and whispers of onlookers and staff, Ryoma's spiteful remarks; all gazes were locked on him, awaiting his response.

"This puts Hayate at a disadvantage!" I curled my fingers into fists on my lap. "It's taking him everything to stand up there in the limelight, but now—"

"Go... ahead." Hayate inhaled and exhaled deep breaths, his faint whisper successfully reaching those in his vicinity. Despite his vibrating limbs, his gaze smouldered with indomitable resolve. "This 'kind' handicap of yours... w-will be your downfall."

Ryoma's lips haughtily quirked upward, as if amused. "Say that after you give results."

Mr. Oto set the main ingredient as mangoes. His favourite fruit; and one in abundant supply for this competition. Ryoma's precision and delicacy contrasted his steel-hearted and rough demeanour. His nimble fingers took care to dice mangoes into small, perfect shapes before simmering them in a sauce pan with sugar and water. After transferring it to a bowl and adding lemon juice, he placed it to cool in the refrigerator. The instant he combined mascarpone, sour cream and vanilla sugar in a mixing bowl, my suspicions were confirmed. He was making tiramisu.

Hayate didn't lose heart. He'd swallowed back his nerves and carefully and succinctly gathered his ingredients to start on his work. There were inevitable slip-ups, him dropping bowls or utensils and sending loud clatters to every ear in the room—all of which Mr. Oto so-very-nicely pointed attention to every time. But, the determination rolling off of him, his bravery, helped him to repeatedly get back up and continue.

"Guys, I need a favour."

I recalled the scene from earlier today, back in our private room before the competition began.

"When it's my turn to bake, I'll be a mess. My dessert will taste horrible or I'll mess up on its design. I may even drop it on the ground with no time to remake it. As we speak, I-I don't want to go out there. I'd rather flunk out of school than be under the scrutiny of so many strangers. So... so, to keep me standing, to ensure I don't cave under the pressure and flee, please..."

"Hayate! Don't forget!" Koyuki shouted from my left, loud enough for everyone in the surrounding vicinity to hear. "If you lose this, you're taking the first trip to the barbershop and going bald. That includes shaving off your eyebrows, too."

"Then you'll run topless around the atrium during morning assembly," Chiaki added. "Cameras flashing, mocking laughter, and teachers roaring, galore."

"I'd like a performance." Nori smirked. "We can have you adorn a cutesy dress and sing a capella downtown during rush hour."

"I like that!" I gushed. "Hayate in a dress would be so, so precious! Let's make it Snow White's! Miko can sew it for us!"

"N-no...!" Teary-eyed and sniffling, Hayate faced us with a quivering jaw. "N-none of that," he begged. "Spare me."

"—hold me accountable. Put scarier ideas into my head so I'll have no choice but to pull through."

It was harsh, but unless he had these kinds of stakes, there was no way he'd have lasted in this competition thus far—let alone stand under direct scrutiny and pressure against Ryoma Fukui. Of course, we recommended that he imagine everyone in their underwear—

"K-Kotorin in h-her— I-I c-cannot! I'd die on the sp-spot!!"

—plus tickled him without mercy among other things, all of which resulted in him either blushing senseless, crying, or quaking in fright.

Teasing Hayate was pleasurable due to his wholesome reactions, but according to him, he depended too deeply on our kindness. If he wished to stand on his two feet, he couldn't let us continue to baby him. Granted, these monsters I called clubmates were one hundred percent serious about following through with those evil propositions.

Not that I was any better. I'd pay to witness his adorable self in a dress any day.

"Is that supposed to be encouragement, Team Baking Society...?" Mr. Oto sweatdropped.

The murmurings that erupted agreed. Nonetheless, Hayate returned to work with renewed conviction. Whether it be a result of adjusting to the pressure or not wanting to be victim to the incredulous scenarios the boys brought up, he stopped shaking also. He baked henceforth as if he were in the comfort of his home, and although Ryoma had gotten the leap ahead of him, it was Hayate who finished first.

Beady stares lingering, Hayate tiptoed inches at a time up to the table bearing the judges. Upon receiving the plates, each judge couldn't conceal their astonishment. Like always, Hayate's artistic eye led to the most beautiful presentation of mango mousse cake possible. A thin layer of graham crackers at the bottom, the fresh cream and mango purée which encompassed the mousse itself, cakes, and sliced mangoes laid on top alongside thin twirling caramel strands. The rich colours and intoxicating scent were but some of the details the judges discussed.

Majority, however, focused on the gentle taste.

"It's not overwhelming. In fact, somehow... ever so slightly, each bite adds more and more of a punch," a judge noted, "like an ever-changing melody."

With a brief conference amongst themselves, the judges unveiled Hayate's score: 16/20.

A buzzer interrupted the conversation.

Ryoma's expression was far from mellow. He charged in, practically shoving Hayate out of the way first opportunity he got.

His mango tiramisu rivalled Hayate's dessert. No, his design alone transcended it, making it seem like all of Hayate's hard work was nothing but a child rolling around in sand. The layers of ladyfingers, mascarpone mixture and mango sauce, cocoa, fresh mango slices and whipped topping—the judges had compliments to offer abound.

All centred around his favourite word: perfect.

"He's such a perfectionist," I noted, bitterly.

"Ryoma's parents are famous chefs," Nori said. "They're acclaimed in multiple countries across the world for their unparalleled skill and flawless executions. So long as you do something, your sole option is to do it perfectly. Being raised by that level of strictness that's all he's strived to do. We're in a baking competition now, but Ryoma's skillset in terms of cooking meals surpasses even mine. Nobody in this room can go head-to-head with him in that field."

So it all came down to how he was raised.

"Living up to their expectations, is it?" I murmured.

"It's a universal prospect, wanting the recognition and appreciation from your parents. My inner child knows those feelings well."

I spared him a sidelong glance. He hadn't intended for me to hear it, not that he went to any lengths to correct himself now that I did.

"Perfection is unattainable, though," he added. "Sooner or later, you'll be knocked down to earth to struggle like the human you are."

"A fourteen?!"

Ryoma's screech jolted me to reality.

I couldn't believe my eyes—my ears—everything unfolding before me.

"My dessert should be perfect," he snapped, desperation slipping into his tone.

"It is perfect," Mr. Paul said. His peers upheld equally stony demeanours. "But we aren't judging desserts solely on taste and presentation alone."

"Unfortunately, it didn't leave an impression nor represent the chosen theme. It tasted robotic, like a factory-made product," said another.

The last one bobbed his head. "In comparison, although Mr. Inoue's dessert lacked in taste, his message we gained through eating it was loud and clear."

Ryoma delivered the darkest glower to Hayate.

"I'm... inferior? To you?" He emitted a strangled breath.

Hayate timidly wrung his wrists. "Um..."

"Don't say anything that'll come across as patronizing." Twisting on the heel of his foot, he swaggered off. "I'll be damned if I let this loss define me. Watch your back, crybaby. I'll get revenge."

Staff hastened to get everything in order for the next round. Hayate stood straighter as he departed in our direction. I met his gaze with a wide grin. His expression momentarily softened. Then, in one fell swoop, he clasped his palm over his mouth and made a beeline for the washrooms.

Chiaki hauled himself to his feet. "He totally went to either cry or throw up."

"Probably both," Koyuki said. "It's a relief he won but now he has a bloodthirsty enemy on his tail."

I swivelled. "I'll go check on him—"

He grabbed me by the collar.

"Chiaki and I will be fine. You and Nori need to focus on your own battles."

"But..."

"Let them go, Angel." Nori patted my shoulder. "Giving him company now, in his feeble condition, will have the opposite effect."

Koyuki and Chiaki set off side by side.

"It'll be a while before Haya gets accustomed to being in the spotlight," Chiaki said.

"Until then," Koyuki agreed, "he has today's glory to live with."