The record sheet was finally put up again.
Before the first class even began that morning, Yamashiro Takuma unrolled the long sheet of paper and smoothed it flat on the right side of the blackboard. There was much more writing on it than there had been the past two days. Fine checkmarks had appeared in the various columns after each name, and the blank space in the far-right column—the one that had made the entire classroom itch with curiosity—was finally no longer empty.
The moment Kiyo saw the words in that column, his whole body froze, as if someone had quietly placed a block of ice behind his chair.
"Can I pretend to be sick and go home now?" he asked softly.
Morita Yu did not even raise his head. "You look more like you should identify a body first."
That was so mean that even several children nearby could not hold back their laughter. But the amusement was only a thin layer. Everyone knew that what had appeared on the sheet by the blackboard today was not merely a few words written by the teacher. It was the first public description of "how others were most likely to see you right now."
Che sat in the middle-rear rows. Rather than looking at his own name first, his gaze swept over the layout of the entire sheet. Yamashiro Takuma's handwriting was steady, and every short phrase was packed tightly, as though he was not trying to nail anyone down, but leaving each person a little room. Yet precisely because the phrases were short, they seemed even sharper. Few words meant that none of them had been written carelessly.
Yamashiro Takuma did not immediately let everyone crowd around. Instead, he stood at the front of the room and rolled a piece