"Get your papers and pens out! Draw your own portraits by hand! They must look exactly like you are now, and if one less scar is present, be careful that I'll beat your faces so badly that even your mothers won't recognize you!"
The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was incredibly repressive; it was as if it had solidified.
Here, gone were the usual bustle and liveliness, gone was the vitality. All that remained was fear, as well as the timid breathing sounds, and the scratching of pencils on paper.
A group of girls were all hiding in the corners, their gazes directed at the man standing in the center of the rehearsal room—curious, fearful, excited, and even slightly gleeful. It was a mix of all sorts of emotions.
In the center of the rehearsal room, a group of boys were sitting down, with a paintbrush in one hand and a mirror in the other, as they painted their self-portraits that reflected the worried and scar-ridden faces they saw.
