Deep in the northern wing of Akademi, past the classrooms no one used and the doors no one dared open, lay a room that didn’t officially exist.

The Info Clubroom.

At a glance, it was abandoned. Curtains drawn so tightly not even a sliver of light escaped. The heavy doors were always locked. The camera mounted just above the threshold blinked lazily, but it could vanish into the ceiling in an instant—erasing the evidence of anyone standing near it. No teacher checked in. No student ever entered.

If they tried, they'd see nothing. A blur of static and shadows. If they insisted, they’d stop trying. Eventually.

But inside—inside was a different story.

The room pulsed with life. Six monitors stacked like totems glowed softly in the pitch-black void, casting flickering patterns onto concrete walls and piles of decaying furniture from its former life as the Newspaper Club. Cables curled across the floor like mechanical roots. Fans buzzed. Machines clicked. The hum of collected sins was constant.

And at the center of it all, lounging in a squeaky swivel chair, was Info-kun.

No name. No face. No trace of him in any record that mattered. Just whispers.

A myth.

His hands moved effortlessly across the keyboard, long fingers dancing over keys like a pianist playing a quiet symphony of control. On the screens, files unfolded like petals. Secrets opened. A hundred students reduced to folders, to strings of metadata and blackmail.

But one folder glowed different.

Pinned to the upper corner of the far-left monitor, it was layered, encrypted, custom-coded with care. The icon wasn’t a name—just a single letter, flanked by red brackets.

That file? His treasure.

Unlike the others, it wasn’t just used. It was watched. Protected. Built up day by day with data no one else would ever see. Voice clips, glance timestamps, search histories, facial expression logs. Screenshots. Screenshots. Screenshots. His entire digital footprint encoded, mapped, worshipped.

Today, that treasure had slipped. Just a little.

Enough.

A private message left unsent, then deleted. A conversation that didn't match the surveillance mic feed. A strange expression during a lie.

He caught it.

He always did.

The screen blinked. A draft appeared.

“Careful. You're starting to crack.” “I’d hate to ruin you, but I will if I have to.” “Let’s not make this unpleasant.”

Click. Sent.

Info-kun leaned back in his chair, eyes catching the soft glow of the file name once more. He didn’t smile—he didn’t need to. Power didn’t gloat.

He reached for a thermos, took a quiet sip of cold coffee, then resumed typing. Updating. Watching.

He was a god in a room of ghosts.

And that file?

That file was the only thing he didn’t sell.