Hide and seek

The announcement of a test to be conducted in this hall took everyone by surprise, leaving them perplexed and slightly disoriented. At such an early stage, I also felt that proceeding without prior experience in these kinds of tests could be overwhelming. Many participants, unfamiliar with the process, would likely find it extremely challenging.

Especially for those who did not receive any points, finding definitive proof will become nearly impossible if the other party refuses to disclose their messages. A refusal to share messages does not inherently indicate that the person has received points, they could for example be trying to hide that they haven't received any points.

In my case, I received one thousand points; however, I did not become "lucky." The odds of such an occurrence are one in 120. Nevertheless, even those who have received points face significant disadvantages. Contrary to common beliefs, the rules stipulate that only participants without any points can collect points from others, while those who have received points cannot. This implies that individuals without points have the potential to accumulate far more points than those who already possess them. 

The central issue then becomes how these point-less participants will manage to earn points.

I for one will protect my points and not get them taken away. 

While lost in thought, my contemplation was interrupted by the vice president's new announcement. "Before this test commences, I want you to download an app called 'Center Spot.' This app will provide news about the school and offer a platform for chatting with friends."

Realizing that downloading the app might be mandatory to avoid potential surprise penalties, I proceeded to download and install it. Upon opening the app, I was prompted to enter a student ID to continue. Initially, I assumed this ID was the code we used to enter the school, but the app rejected the code, labeling it as invalid. 

I then recalled the letter we received at the entrance and opened it to find a piece of paper inside. The paper contained my student ID, as well as detailed information about the Center Spot app and its functionalities. The app allowed students to chat with friends and even transfer points, which I found impressive.

Entering my student ID, Ss402le, granted me access to the app. The interface resembled a versatile website, offering various features. As I explored the site, a sudden message popped up. However, before I could read it, the vice president began speaking again.

"As you can see, a new message has been sent to all of the new students who have downloaded the app. This one details how there is a way for those with points can earn more. For those who do not understand what I am talking about—you will have to find out on your own. Regarding the additional rules, participants with points can now send their points to our school, and the amount must either be one thousand points or five thousand, if you either send more or less than that amount the points you sent will not be returned. We will then shuffle all the points and redistribute them to the point-receiving participants along with additional awards."

He took a dramatic pause, and continued, " Participants will receive extra points based on how quickly they sent their points to the school. The first ten individuals to do so would receive an additional two thousand points, the next ten would receive one thousand points, and the following ten would receive five hundred points. For the school to facilitate this, the participants will use the quick-pay system which exists within the app to transfer their points. That is a system where you can transfer points to people, personnel, or even the school, for this to work a specific code provided within the message must be used to ensure the points are sent to the school and not to an incorrect recipient."

A new rule has emerged, offering point receivers an opportunity to earn additional points. As I observed the scene, lost in thought, I noticed many students frantically engaging with their phones. It quickly became apparent that there was a race to secure more points.

"I wonder if this is sufficient evidence that someone has points," I mused, just as a student in the crowd loudly accused another, "Hey you there! You're looking at your phone, which means you have points!" His shout echoed through the hall, capturing everyone's attention.

"Can you show me that proof?" the vice president interjected a wide smile on his face, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Well, you saw it right; he was looking at his phone," the accuser replied nervously. The vice president responded, "I want definite proof, not just your word."

As I anticipated, this would not be enough evidence. The accuser, growing more agitated, demanded, "Hey, show him your phone!" It seemed a physical altercation was imminent if no one intervened, just like on the train. 

The vice president, sensing the escalating tension, announced, "I would like to introduce an additional rule: if fighting or any form of forced physical contact occurs here, you will be immediately expelled." This declaration was sufficient to make the loud boy dejectedly sit down, averting further conflict.

With the earlier conflict resolved, I picked up my phone to review the message sent to all students. As the vice president had indicated, the message reiterated his explanations and included the necessary code.

Navigating to the quick-pay system within the app, I found options to specify the number of points I wished to transfer and the recipient. I entered the provided code, Ss364at, along with the desired amount of points, and clicked 'send.'

To transfer points was easy, and the efficiency and user-friendliness of the system were truly marvelous, this system ensures easy money transfer as well as for students to manage their points, it was almost too easy.

Laying my rising doubts in the back of my mind I continued to review the app—in anticipation of the end of the shuffling. 

While goallessly scrolling through the app I lay my gaze upon the option to customize my profile, I already had a profile that the school made in advance—which included my real name as well as my e-mail address and a blank profile picture. While I had the option to leave my profile in its current, nondescript state, I recognized the strategic value of the app. Although there are alternative communication methods, such as the standard messaging app on mobile phones or popular social platforms like Snapchat, the Center Spot app offers a distinct advantage. It had already integrated all the students, facilitating effortless communication without the need to exchange contact information manually. This comprehensive inclusion not only streamlined interactions but also fostered a sense of connectedness within the student body.

However, this convenience also presented potential risks. The ease with which anyone could reach out to another user raised concerns about privacy and the possibility of misuse. Yet, I trusted that the app's designers had implemented adequate measures, such as the ability to block unwanted contacts, to mitigate these risks. The balance between accessibility and privacy must be delicate, but it seemed that the app had considered these factors thoughtfully.

As I delved deeper into the customization options, I was tempted to inject a bit of personality into my profile by adopting a different name. This small act of self-expression seemed harmless enough, a way to stand out in a sea of standardized profiles. However, when I attempted to change my name, the app promptly issued a stern warning. It informed me that altering my profile name would result in a significant penalty—a reduction of half my accumulated points each month. Moreover, the app enforced a strict policy that prohibited further name changes for a full 32 days, making the point deduction almost inevitable.

This warning made it clear that the school placed considerable emphasis on maintaining a consistent and authentic identity within the app. The point reduction penalty was a clear deterrent, designed to discourage frivolous name changes and ensure that students responsibly used their real identities. The policy likely reflected the school's broader values of integrity and accountability.

The app was not merely a communication tool but a carefully curated environment where identity and interaction were regulated to align with the school's expectations. As I considered my next steps, I realized that any changes I made to my profile would carry both opportunities and consequences, reinforcing the importance of thoughtful decision-making in this interconnected digital space.

In the end, I decided to make a modest change to my profile by updating the picture to a simple photo of my hand. While this alteration was far from exciting, it at least introduced a small personal touch to an otherwise generic profile. When I refreshed the app, I felt a brief sense of triumph, believing that I was one of the few who had taken the initiative to change their profile picture. However, this sense of uniqueness was short-lived. To my surprise, others had apparently made similar changes, and the app was now filled with a myriad of hand photos and other equally understated images. My attempt to stand out had inadvertently rendered me even less distinguishable from the crowd, blending my profile into the sea of near-identical pictures.

As I continued to scroll through the app, the novelty quickly wore off, and I found myself growing increasingly bored. I wasn't alone in this sentiment; it seemed that the feeling of boredom was spreading through the hall like a silent contagion. At first, it was expressed subtly—an occasional sigh, restless shifting in chairs, or a furrowed brow. But as about ten minutes dragged on, these quiet signs of discontent became more pronounced, with exaggerated gestures and more frequent expressions of frustration. After nearly another ten minutes had gone by, the collective patience of the students had worn thin, and the first voice of dissent broke the uneasy silence.

A girl sitting nearby finally spoke up, voicing a concern that was clearly shared by everyone present, myself included. "Excuse me," she began, her tone polite yet edged with frustration, "but we've been waiting for a really long time, and the points have not been redistributed to us." Her question was directed at the vice president, who was seated comfortably at the front, casually sipping a cup of coffee. He responded with a measured calmness, slowly lowering the mug before addressing the room. "I understand your concern," he said in a composed and steady voice, "Half of the time has already passed and you have not received any points, but please keep in mind that the school is doing its utmost to expedite the redistribution process."

Despite his seemingly calm demeanor, it was clear that his reassurances did little to alleviate the growing discontent among the students. The girl, undeterred by his response, pressed on. "But it shouldn't take this long," she persisted, her voice tinged with desperation as she sought an explanation that might ease her, and everyone else's, growing frustration. The vice president, maintaining his calm exterior, replied with the same measured tone, "I'm sorry, but I was simply ordered to act as a guide, nothing more."

As the exchange unfolded, I observed the vice president closely from my seat in the second row. I've always had a keen ability to discern when someone is being less than truthful, whether through subtle cues in their body language or nuances in their speech. I could even detect the rhythm of a person's heartbeat, an instinctive skill that had served me well in past encounters. However, as I scrutinized the vice president, I could see no signs of deceit. His words rang true, and his demeanor appeared genuine. Yet, there was something else—a hint of deep contemplation, as if he too was puzzled by the unexplained delay.

It was clear that the vice president, despite his composed exterior, was not entirely at ease. His thoughtful expression suggested that he was just as perplexed as we were by the situation, perhaps silently questioning the reasons behind the prolonged redistribution process. As I reflected on this, I realized that the uncertainty we all felt was not just about the points but about the underlying trust in the system that had been temporarily shaken. The vice president's calmness might have been an attempt to maintain order, but it was evident that even he was not immune to the unease that was steadily growing among the students.

At that moment, it became apparent that we were all caught in a web of uncertainty, waiting for clarity in a situation that was becoming increasingly opaque. The vice president's reassurances, while composed, could not fully quell the anxiety that simmered beneath the surface. We were left to wonder—not just about the redistribution of points, but about the integrity of the process and the transparency of those in charge.

**Vice Student President's Reflection:**

As I sat through another agonizing five minutes, I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease. The tension in the room was palpable, and it was no wonder the students seated in the hall were on the brink of panic. Half of them had suddenly seen fifty percent of their hard-earned points vanish without explanation. Despite the inner turmoil I felt, I knew I had to maintain my composure. Any sign of distress from me would only exacerbate the already agitated atmosphere. My role required me to project calmness and authority, even as I empathized with the students' plight. 

I found myself contemplating the situation from their perspective. How must they be feeling, knowing that the points they had been given were now gone? The truth is, the blame lies squarely with the institution itself. The mysterious code that triggered the disappearance of the points originated from the school, and the implications of this are troubling. The student council president, who spearheaded this proposal, argued that it was meant to alleviate the burden on students who had been given points by raising the overall difficulty of the test for the ones without. By crushing the hopes of the ones who thought to gain points, like the loud boy. 

but this gave an overwhelming edge to the students who were gifted points, to have fifty percent more funds is substantial and raises the question about fairness. However, considering she is the one who orchestrated the entire exam and gave the points to the students in the first place, there's little room for critique—except for the baffling disappearance of points. 

Given that she proposed this system, she bears a significant responsibility. She holds control over sixty-four thousand points belonging to newly enrolled students, and yet, she has chosen not to redistribute them. I can't help but question her motives and wonder what she is truly thinking. The president sent me a message earlier, instructing me to address the students with a new rule. The message read as follows:

"Rin, I want you to present a new rule for this exam, as well as provide information about the Center Spot and the payment system. The rule you are to give to the students is that those with points can earn more by transferring them to a code owned by the school. These points will then be shuffled and redistributed. The amount and how many people receive extra points is at your discretion."

That was all she said. This new rule, which she introduced unilaterally, has only served to widen the divide between students with points and those without. It's a harsh measure, and even I was kept in the dark about it until the last moment. It feels almost as though she is testing me as well, pushing the limits of my leadership and loyalty.

The most perplexing aspect of this situation is the fact that the points have not yet been redistributed. The only explanation I can fathom is that the president is deliberately instilling fear in us. It's hard to believe that she would design an exam, grant bonus points, and then retract them through the students' own greed for more points. There's a level of psychological warfare at play here, one that I'm not sure any of us were prepared for.

As the vice student president, I am left to navigate this complex scenario. I must balance my duty to the student body with my loyalty to the council. Despite that, I helplessly wonder what you are thinking.

The sharp, piercing sound of an alarm reverberated throughout the entire hall, shattering the heavy silence that had settled over us with a definitive, almost ominous finality. It was the kind of sound that immediately commanded attention, a sound that left no room for ambiguity. All eyes turned toward the source—a small, unassuming phone held by the vice president. Despite its size, the phone now seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unsaid words, its alarm signaling, it seemed, the abrupt end of the exam.

As the alarm continued to ring out, the vice president appeared to freeze, his body stiffening as though a sudden and profound realization had struck him like a bolt of lightning. It was as if, in that instant, the weight of what had just transpired became unmistakably clear—an understanding of the inherent unfairness that had quietly unfolded within those four walls. The hopes and prayers that I had so fervently sent out into the universe, desperate for some semblance of mercy, had evidently gone unanswered. The points that I, along with half of the other students, had been generously awarded had now vanished into thin air, evaporated as though they had never existed in the first place.

In truth, there was little ground on which to base any complaint. The points we had been given were not a product of our own efforts, but rather a benevolent gift from the council president herself, who represented the authority of the school. The core reason behind this sudden confiscation lay not in some external injustice, but within ourselves—in our own greed, our insatiable desire to accumulate more than we had earned or deserved. I, too, had fallen prey to this temptation, blinded by the allure of easy gain. And so, the fault was mine entirely. I had no right to be angry or resentful, no justification for blaming anyone but myself. Acceptance of my own culpability was the only reasonable, perhaps even noble, response in the face of such a harsh lesson.

Yet, as I looked around the hall, it became evident that the majority of the students did not share my sense of resignation. The reality of what had just occurred seemed to dawn on them all at once, and when the alarm's echoes had finally faded, their reactions erupted like a storm. Those who had eagerly sent their points to the school, lured by the promise of gaining even more, now found themselves in a state of utter disbelief. Their shock quickly gave way to fury, their voices rising in a cacophony of outrage that filled the room. The hall, once so orderly and composed, quickly descended into chaos. Students stood up from their seats, their faces contorted with anger, their shouts overlapping in a discordant symphony of protest and desperation. The unrest spread like wildfire, igniting a large-scale upheaval among the student body as the bitter reality of their loss set in.

In the midst of this growing turmoil, the vice president stood out as a stark contrast. Despite the escalating clamor, he remained utterly unphased, as if detached from the chaos that was unfolding all around him. It was as though he had deliberately chosen to block out the protests entirely, shutting himself off from the surrounding noise and fury. His stance was one of resolute indifference, a refusal to acknowledge the angry cries and desperate pleas that suffocatingly filled the air. This stoic, almost dispassionate response only served to heighten the tension in the room, leaving the students to grapple with their frustration and helplessness on their own, with no one to turn to for answers or solace.

As I observed this scene, it dawned on me that this moment was far more significant than any exam we had just completed. This was not merely a test of our academic knowledge or our ability to follow instructions—it was a test of our character, a trial of how we would respond when confronted with the consequences of our own actions and desires. The alarm had not just marked the end of an exam; it had signaled the beginning of a far more profound lesson. A lesson that would linger in our minds long after the echoes of that alarm had faded away, challenging us to reflect on our choices, our motivations, and the true cost of our ambitions. In that moment, the hall became a crucible, where our virtues and vices were laid bare, and where the true nature of our character was revealed in the stark light of reality.