Chapter 3: The Final Deletion

The administration building after hours was a different creature entirely. Gone were the fluorescent lights and constant chatter of daytime operations, replaced by emergency lighting that cast long shadows down empty hallways. Alex's footsteps echoed against polished linoleum as he made his way through the maze of offices, his student ID card granting him access to areas that would be forbidden during normal hours.

He'd volunteered for the late shift three times this week, establishing a pattern that would make his presence unremarkable. Mrs. Patterson had been grateful for his initiative—budget cuts meant skeleton crews during evening hours, and having a reliable student employee willing to work past midnight was a blessing she didn't question.

The basement access door required a different keycard, one Alex had "borrowed" from the facilities manager's desk earlier that afternoon. He'd return it before morning, and Mr. Henderson would never know it had been missing. Alex had learned that most security was built on the assumption that people wouldn't think to exploit it. The truly dangerous acts were often the simplest ones.

The basement hummed with the steady rhythm of servers and climate control systems. Banks of ancient computer equipment lined the walls, their status lights blinking like digital stars in the dim space. The phone registration system occupied a corner of the room—a collection of black boxes connected to landline phones that looked like relics from the 1980s.

Alex pulled out a disposable phone he'd purchased with cash that morning. The irony wasn't lost on him—Jay probably spent more on dinner than Alex had paid for his weapon of choice. But money couldn't buy what Alex possessed: intimate knowledge of the system's vulnerabilities and the cold determination to exploit them.

He connected the phone to the registration line and dialed the familiar number. The automated system greeted him with its robotic voice, walking him through options that Alex could navigate blindfolded. Student ID verification, PIN number entry, access to enrollment modification protocols.

The beauty of phone registration was its assumption of legitimacy. If you had a student's ID and PIN, the system assumed you were authorized to make changes. It didn't matter that Alex had obtained Jay's PIN through his administrative access earlier that day. The machine didn't judge; it only obeyed.

"Current enrollment for student ID 2019-INT-4478," the system announced in its flat tone. "Twelve credit hours. English Composition, section 201. Intermediate Economics, section 104. International Business Law, section 301. Calculus II, section 203."

Twelve credits. The exact minimum for visa compliance. Alex felt a surge of satisfaction at his earlier reconnaissance—Jay was living on the edge without even knowing it.

The first deletion was almost anticlimactic. A few key presses, a confirmation code, and English Composition vanished from Jay's schedule. Nine credits remaining. The system helpfully calculated the change in tuition costs, informing Alex that a refund adjustment would be processed within 5-7 business days.

Alex paused, listening to the basement's mechanical symphony. Somewhere above him, the university slept peacefully, unaware that one student's future was being systematically dismantled. The weight of what he was doing should have troubled him, but all he could see was Sara's battered face, hear Jay's condescending voice dismissing their friendship as recreational activities.

Intermediate Economics was next. The system processed the withdrawal with the same mechanical indifference, dropping Jay to six credits. Officially, he was now a part-time student, a status that would trigger automatic reviews by both the registrar's office and immigration services.

But Alex wasn't finished.

International Business Law disappeared with another series of key presses. Three credits remaining. The system began generating automated warnings about minimum enrollment requirements, but Alex navigated past them with practiced efficiency. He'd seen these protocols before while helping legitimate students with schedule changes.

Finally, Calculus II joined its digital graveyard. Zero credits enrolled. The system's tone shifted slightly, becoming more insistent as it warned about the consequences of complete withdrawal. Academic standing in jeopardy. Financial aid eligibility suspended. International student status under review.

Alex confirmed each warning with cold precision. Yes, he understood the consequences. Yes, he wanted to proceed. Yes, he was authorized to make these changes.

The coup de grâce came through the fee assessment module. Alex navigated to the miscellaneous charges section, a Byzantine collection of university fees that most students never bothered to examine closely. Late registration fee: $150. Schedule change penalty: $75. Administrative processing charge: $200. International student services fee: $500.

Each charge was individually reasonable, the kind of bureaucratic nickel-and-diming that universities had perfected over decades. But combined with Jay's course withdrawals, they created a financial maze that would take weeks to resolve—weeks that Jay no longer had.

The system calculated the final damage with mechanical satisfaction. Total amount owed: $3,247.83. Payment due immediately to prevent account hold. Registration privileges suspended pending payment resolution.

Alex allowed himself a moment of pure satisfaction as he reviewed his work. Jay would wake up tomorrow to discover that he was no longer enrolled in any classes, owed the university over three thousand dollars in fabricated fees, and had approximately seventy-two hours before his visa status was officially reviewed by immigration services.

The landline phone went silent as Alex disconnected the call. He carefully wiped down every surface he'd touched, removed the disposable phone's battery, and prepared to return the basement to its original state. Every piece of evidence would be disposed of separately—the phone in one dumpster, the battery in another, the SIM card dissolved in acid from the chemistry lab.

As he climbed the stairs back to the main floor, Alex felt the weight of the building's silence pressing down on him. The administration building had been his workplace for two years, a mundane environment where he'd filed paperwork and answered phone calls. Tonight, it had become something else entirely—the scene of a crime that would never officially exist.

The return journey to his dorm took twenty-three minutes, walking through empty campus paths illuminated by security lights. Alex timed his route carefully, avoiding areas with security cameras, staying in the shadows whenever possible. To any observer, he was just another student heading home after a late night in the library.

Back in his room, Alex sat on his bed and stared at his hands. They looked the same as they had that morning—callused from his part-time job, slightly ink-stained from taking notes in class. But they'd just wielded more power than any weapon Jay's money could buy.

His phone showed three missed calls from Lucy and a text: Sara's doing better. Talking about maybe transferring schools to get away from him. How was work?

Alex typed back: Quiet night. Just routine stuff. Tell Sara she's stronger than she knows.

As he prepared for bed, Alex's mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow's aftermath. Jay would discover the changes when he tried to access his student portal, probably sometime after his usual late morning wake-up. There would be confusion first, then anger, then the slow realization of how completely he'd been outmaneuvered.

The beautiful part was that Jay would never suspect Alex. Why would he look twice at the quiet, working-class student who answered phones and filed paperwork? Alex had always been invisible to people like Jay—just another face in the crowd, another person whose existence barely registered on their radar.

That invisibility had been Alex's greatest asset. Tonight, it had become Jay's downfall.

Alex turned off the lights and lay in the darkness, listening to the familiar sounds of dorm life filtering through thin walls. Somewhere across campus, Jay was probably sleeping peacefully in his expensive apartment, unaware that his world had just been reduced to digital rubble.

Tomorrow would bring chaos, but tonight belonged to the satisfaction of a job perfectly executed. Alex had become exactly what Jay had accused him of being—someone who understood how the world actually worked.

The difference was that Alex had learned to make it work for him.