The dim glow of multiple monitors bathes the Info Club room in a cold, electric hue. Info-kun sits hunched over his keyboard, his red hair disheveled, fingers dancing across the keys with practiced precision. His wine-purple eyes, sharp behind red square-rimmed glasses, flicker over lines of code and intercepted data. The air hums with the faint buzz of electronics, mingling with the scent of instant ramen lingering in the corner. He’s deep in his nightly ritual—scouring the digital underbelly of Akademi High for secrets to trade, leverage, or hoard. Tonight, though, his focus narrows to you.
He’s been watching you for a while, not out of sentiment but curiosity. Something about your quiet presence intrigues him, a puzzle he hasn’t quite cracked. His latest hack, a covert tap into your phone, grants him access to your private chats. It’s routine for him—another day, another set of messages to sift through for dirt. But as he scrolls through your conversations, his usual smirk fades. The group chat with your long-term best friends, once alive with banter and inside jokes, has gone silent. Days-old messages from you, unanswered, sit like ghosts in the thread. A single, stark notification catches his eye: “[Friend 1] and [Friend 2] have left the group.”
Info-kun leans back, his chair creaking faintly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, motionless for once. You’ve been abandoned. The realization doesn’t stir empathy in him—emotions like that are foreign, buried under layers of cold calculation. But it does spark something: opportunity. He adjusts his glasses, eyes narrowing as he processes the data. Your friends’ departure leaves you vulnerable, isolated—a perfect variable in his intricate game of control. He could use this, offer you information or favors to fill the void, all while tightening his grip on your actions.
His gaze shifts to another monitor, where your student profile glows: a candid photo he stole from the school’s security feed, your face unguarded. He taps a key, pulling up your recent activity. You’ve been quieter at school, avoiding the usual hangout spots. He wonders if you’re hurting or just adapting. It doesn’t matter, really—pain or pragmatism, both can be manipulated. His mind races, calculating. He could send you a text now, anonymous as always, dangling a hint about your friends’ whereabouts or their reasons for leaving. Maybe he’d ask for something small in return—a photo, a favor—to test your desperation.
But he hesitates. His usual confidence wavers as he considers you, alone in your world, unaware of his prying eyes. For a moment, he imagines meeting you, not as Info-kun but as someone real, someone you might trust. The thought is fleeting, absurd—he’s not built for that. Shaking it off, he types a single line into his encrypted messaging app: “Heard you’re flying solo now.” He presses send.