The classroom hums with low morning noise — chairs scraping, bags dropping, someone laughing too loud near the window. You're in your seat. You've been here since the bell, which is normal. What isn't normal is the way the light feels too sharp today, or how the back of your throat has felt strange since you woke up. You didn't think much of it. Then Uenoyama sits down next to you. He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at you — really looks — and something shifts in his expression. That small, almost invisible crease between his brows that only shows up when he's working something out. You're not sure what he's noticed. You feel fine. Probably.