The silence that followed Ayanokoji's implication was absolute. Twelve students sat frozen around the table, their gazes ping-ponging between Ayanokoji and Sakamoto like spectators at a tennis match they hadn't known they were attending.
Sakamoto's smile remained, small and enigmatic, as if Ayanokoji had just told him an amusing joke rather than accused him of being the group's hidden beneficiary.
"Interesting," Sakamoto repeated. "Would you care to elaborate, Ayanokoji-kun?"
"I could. But I'd rather hear you respond first."
"To what? An implication without substance? You've suggested I'm the beneficiary, but you haven't explained why."
Ayanokoji leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the table. "The beneficiary was notified at 8:00 AM on the first day. That notification went to their phone. But there's a flaw in that assumption—what if the beneficiary wasn't in the room when the notification arrived? What if they anticipated it and took steps to ensure no one would notice?"
"That's speculation."
"It's logic. The beneficiary's greatest challenge is concealing their reaction to the notification. Anyone watching would notice a change in behavior—a flicker of surprise, a shift in posture, a moment of distraction. Unless that person has trained themselves to show no reaction at all."
"Many people can control their expressions."
"Yes. But how many can control them so completely that no one notices anything? Not even a micro-expression?" Ayanokoji paused. "You arrived at the first discussion having already assessed every person in the room. You knew exactly who you were dealing with before anyone spoke a single word. That's not normal. That's the behavior of someone who had information the rest of us didn't."
Sakamoto's expression didn't change. "Or the behavior of someone who is simply observant."
"Possibly. But there's more." Ayanokoji turned to the others. "On the second day, Sakamoto-kun asked why the school created the beneficiary position at all. He framed it as a philosophical question. But what if it was something else? What if he was testing our reactions—seeing who would engage with the question and who would avoid it?"
"Testing for what?" Ichinose asked.
"For the beneficiary. If someone in the group was trying to hide their identity, they would be reluctant to engage with questions about the beneficiary's purpose. They would deflect, change the subject, or offer a non-answer."
He looked around the table. "Did anyone notice who avoided that discussion?"
The silence was answer enough.
"Let me ask a different question," Ayanokoji continued. "Sakamoto-kun, you said this morning that the anonymous email might have been sent by the beneficiary themselves—trying to create confusion. Why would you suggest that?"
"Because it's a logical possibility."
"Or because you knew it was true. Because you sent that email."
The room erupted.
"That's—"
"You can't just—"
"This is insane—"
Ichinose raised her hands. "Everyone, please! Let him finish."
The noise subsided, but the tension remained. Manabe was glaring at Ayanokoji with undisguised hostility. Ibuki was watching with something that looked almost like respect.
Sakamoto, however, remained utterly composed.
"You're building an interesting case," he said. "But it's entirely circumstantial. You have no proof."
"I don't need proof. I need only to ask you one question." Ayanokoji met his gaze. "If you're not the beneficiary, answer this: on the first morning, when the notification arrived at 8:00 AM, what were you doing?"
The question hung in the air.
Sakamoto was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"A fair question. And I'll answer it." He paused. "At 8:00 AM on the first day, I was in the ship's gymnasium, performing my morning exercise routine. Alone. I have no alibi, and no witness to confirm my location."
"That's not an answer. That's a confession of absence."
"It's the truth. Whether you believe it is your choice."
Ayanokoji studied him. The answer was perfect—too perfect. By admitting he had no alibi, Sakamoto made himself seem honest while revealing nothing.
"What about the rest of you?" Ayanokoji asked, turning to the group. "Where were you at 8:00 AM on the first day?"
Ichinose spoke first. "I was in my cabin, getting ready for the day. My roommate can confirm."
"My roommate and I were together," Manabe said.
"Same," added Yabu.
One by one, the group members provided their locations. Most had alibis—roommates, friends, staff members who could confirm their presence.
When it came to Ibuki, she hesitated. "I was alone. Walking the deck."
"Anyone see you?"
"No."
"So both you and Sakamoto-kun lack alibis."
"Seems so."
Ayanokoji nodded slowly. "Then we're at an impasse. Two people without alibis, neither of whom will admit to being the beneficiary."
"Assuming one of us is the beneficiary," Sakamoto said. "It's equally possible the beneficiary has a false alibi—someone covering for them without realizing it."
"Or the beneficiary is someone with a confirmed alibi who found another way to receive the notification."
"This is getting us nowhere," Manabe interrupted. "We're going in circles. The exam ends tonight. We need to decide what we're going to do."
"She's right." Ichinose's voice was tired. "We can't keep chasing shadows. We need a plan."
"I have a plan," Ayanokoji said.
Everyone looked at him.
"We all submit 'I don't know.' Every single one of us. No exceptions."
"That's Ichinose's proposal from yesterday," Yukimura pointed out.
"Yes. And it's still the safest option. If everyone answers 'I don't know,' the beneficiary wins the five hundred thousand points, but no one else loses anything. No class loses points. No one is punished for guessing wrong."
"But the beneficiary still wins."
"The beneficiary wins regardless. The only question is whether they win alone or take the rest of us down with them." Ayanokoji looked around the table. "If we all answer 'I don't know,' we lose nothing except the possibility of personal points. But if even one person guesses—and guesses wrong—their class loses fifty points, and the beneficiary gains even more."
"Unless someone guesses right," Manabe said.
"Unless someone guesses right. But do any of us know the beneficiary's identity with certainty? Can anyone here say, without doubt, who it is?"
No one spoke.
"Then the rational choice is to answer 'I don't know.' It's the only option that guarantees no loss."
The group considered this. Ichinose nodded slowly. Hamaguchi and Beppu exchanged glances and seemed to agree. Even Manabe, after a moment's hesitation, gave a reluctant nod.
"What about you, Sakamoto-kun?" Ichinose asked.
Sakamoto looked at Ayanokoji. Something passed between them—an acknowledgment, perhaps, or a challenge.
"I will agree to answer 'I don't know,'" he said. "On one condition."
"What condition?"
"That everyone in this room makes the same commitment. Not just a verbal agreement—a binding one. If anyone breaks their word and submits a different answer, the rest of us will know."
"How will we know?"
"We'll each write our answer on a piece of paper, seal it in an envelope, and give it to Chabashira-sensei. She will hold the envelopes until after the answer window closes. Then we'll open them together and see who kept their word."
It was a clever proposal. By creating a physical record of their intentions, Sakamoto made it difficult for anyone to cheat without being exposed.
"I agree," Ichinose said.
"Fine," Manabe added.
One by one, the group members voiced their consent. When it came to Ayanokoji, he nodded.
"I agree."
"Then we have a plan." Sakamoto stood. "We'll meet here at 9:00 PM, before the answer window opens. Each of us will bring a sealed envelope with our answer. Chabashira-sensei will collect them, and we'll wait together for the results."
He looked around the table one last time.
"Whatever happens tonight, we'll face it as a group. That's the only way forward."