"Seriously, how does everyone know I go running in the mornings?"
Shimizu Akira gazed out the window at the newly brightened sky, a twinge of helplessness rising in his chest.
It seemed like everyone around him had taken his habit for granted—Kushida Kikyō had mentioned it a few days ago, saying Horikita Suzune brought it up during swimming class. Kamuro Masumi had just casually referenced it in her message: "Haven't gone for your run yet?" And, oh right, even the school chairman knew about it.
By that count, at least four people were explicitly aware.
The thought nagged at him, leaving him unusually distracted during his usual jog.
Normally, ten kilometers was a breeze, but today it took him a sluggish thirty-one minutes, his breathing noticeably more ragged than usual.
It wasn't until the 8 AM daily intel refresh that his unsettled mind finally steadied.
He scanned the updates one by one.
[1. Sakayanagi Arisu enjoys contemplating problems while drinking coffee at cafés.]
The first entry made him frown. Can someone with a heart condition even drink coffee?
He wasn't a doctor, but he'd read enough health articles to know caffeine could accelerate heart rates and strain cardiovascular systems.
Come to think of it, he'd never fully grasped the severity of Sakayanagi's condition.
Given how she always leaned on that cane, was she truly incapable of walking without it?
[2. Advanced Nurturing High School prohibits students from contacting outsiders during the school term.]
The second item was school policy.
No outside contact… Not that it affected him much. In this world, Shimizu was effectively alone, with no one to reach out to.
But he could imagine how agonizing this rule must be for students with families and friends.
Then again, perhaps this very policy covertly safeguarded certain individuals—and certain unspoken rules—within the school.
Take Ryūen Kakeru from Class 1-C, for instance. If outside contact were allowed, someone would've reported his violent tendencies long before he ever threw a punch.
Or Nagumo Miyabi, the second-year student council vice president who manipulated all four classes like puppets. Were it not for this rule, the wealthy heirs under his thumb would've had their parents send someone to "educate" him already.
In a way, the school was protecting them.
[3. Advanced Nurturing High School's phones enable location tracking between added contacts.]
The third point gave Shimizu genuine pause—he'd never noticed this feature before.
He glanced at his phone. Like everyone else's, it was a school-issued model.
Private devices were strictly banned, so all first-years received identical units upon enrollment.
Of course, with enough points, students could exchange theirs for different models at the campus store.
But no matter the specs or aesthetics, every device originated from the school—hardware and software alike were firmly under institutional control.
Given that, a "post-friend-adding location share" function wasn't entirely implausible.
On impulse, he opened his contacts and tapped Ichinose Honami's chat. Sure enough, a "Share Location" option sat in the menu.
The moment he selected it, a mini-map popped up.
A glowing dot marked Ichinose's position, stationary and barely a hundred meters away—precisely where Class 1-B's classroom should be.
What unsettled him was the lack of permission prompts.
By all logic, there should've been a consent request, but the school's system had no such safeguards. Just adding someone granted real-time tracking access.
(This feature is terrifying. It's practically tailor-made for stalkers.)
The thought flashed through his mind instantly.
Theoretically, anyone could monitor a contact's movements 24/7—pinpointing their classroom, inferring their activities.
Put bluntly, it was a gift for the obsessive. Whether fixated on a crush or nursing some other unhealthy fixation, this function enabled "precision surveillance."
For example, if a girl's location showed her in a male classmate's dorm at midnight—lingering for hours—anyone checking could easily guess what "indescribable events" had transpired.
(What the hell is this school thinking?)
Framed as a "convenient communication tool," it felt more like an invisible tracking chip implanted in everyone.
In the wrong hands, this could spiral into chaos.
He imagined someone monitoring his own movements: leaving the dorm at 6:30 AM for his run, returning at 7:10, entering the classroom by 7:50… Even his vending machine trips between classes would be meticulously logged. The mere idea made his skin crawl.
The more he considered it, the more uneasy he grew. He immediately tried disabling his location.
But after scouring the settings, he realized the phone offered no option to turn off tracking—not even a toggle.
Out of curiosity, he checked Chabashira Sae's location. The screen remained blank—her position wasn't visible.
So it was possible to disable it.
Teachers like Chabashira likely either purchased the privilege with points or benefited from default administrative privacy settings.
In short, anyone could opt out—for a price.
Without hesitation, he messaged Chabashira:
Shimizu Akira: Chabashira-sensei, how many points does it cost to disable phone tracking?
Her reply came swiftly:
Chabashira Sae: 10,000 points. Payment guarantees deactivation.
The price was lower than he'd expected.
Perhaps enough students had already noticed the tracking issue, mass requests driving the cost down.
With nothing left to deliberate, he transferred the points immediately.
Within minutes, a system notification confirmed his location services had been terminated.
Shimizu exhaled, tapping his phone's back casing—finally free from that invisible gaze.
He reopened Ichinose's location.
Now, only her lone marker pulsed on the mini-map. His own identifier had vanished entirely.
(So if I've disabled my tracking… does that mean I can now freely monitor others' locations? Could I just… watch everyone indefinitely?)
He suppressed the thought as soon as it surfaced.
There was no appeal in it.
Exploiting this function to spy on others was, at its core, just taking advantage of their unawareness—like peeking at lives from the shadows. The idea alone felt grimy.
This one-sided voyeurism wasn't "convenience." It was pathological.
With a swipe, he exited the map.