Onyx's POV
I am a third-year Information Technology student at Harrington University, currently approaching the completion of my program—close enough to graduation that the endpoint is no longer theoretical, but imminent.
It's visible now. Defined. Like a final checkpoint at the end of a system I've already mapped out.
If everything proceeds as expected, my final year will be simple. Uneventful. Quiet—in the way I prefer.
Control has never been something I developed. It has always been baseline. What I refined over time was the method—minimizing friction to maintain efficiency.
Not eliminating it. That would be unrealistic.
But reducing it to a level where it no longer interferes with the process.
That approach shapes how people perceive me.
Most find me easy to approach—not because I'm engaging, but because I don't create resistance. I respond appropriately. I greet professors, assist when asked, and listen more than I speak. When I do speak, my words are measured—neutral, controlled, calibrated to avoid unnecessary reaction.
I don't interrupt. I don't push. I don't escalate.
Even when situations become uncomfortable, my behavior remains consistent. The output doesn't change.
Because of that, people tend to reach the same conclusion.
That I am Predictable. Efficient. Controlled.
Sometimes, I notice it in the way they look at me—as if they're assessing whether I'm actually reacting, or simply executing a predefined response.
Like a robot.
And once that assumption settles, I become easy to categorize.
Just another student—a seat filler, a name on the attendance sheet, a classmate who shows up, does his work, and disappears once the lecture ends.
I don't belong to a fixed group. No consistent circle. No table that expects my presence. I operate alone—not out of isolation, but preference.
From an external perspective, that translates into something simple.
Normal. Predictable. Harmless.
The field I study reinforces that pattern. Information Technology doesn't require constant interaction—it rewards precision, structure, and independent execution. Systems don't respond to emotion. They respond to input. Logic. Accuracy.
That framework suits me.
I specialize in systems—databases, backend structures, the components that remain invisible once everything functions correctly. I prefer operating at that layer.
When a system works, no one questions it. No one looks deeper. No one asks how it holds together.
I apply the same principle to my life.
Also, my routine is structured, repeatable, efficient.
I wake up. I eat. I go to university. I study. I go home. I eat. I sleep.
Then I repeat the process.
Anything outside that structure—parties, unnecessary social events—doesn't serve a purpose. Not because I'm excluded. I'm not. I simply choose not to participate.
There is no functional benefit. Only disruption.
And inefficiency, in any form, is something I avoid.
From the outside, my life appears stable.
Ordinary. Forgettable. Safe.
That outcome is not accidental.
It is maintained.
Because stability like this does not exist without control—constant monitoring beneath the surface, continuous adjustment, calculated restriction. Variables must be managed before they escalate. Risks must be contained before they spread.
No one sees that part.
And they don't need to.
Because this level of control wasn't built from preference.
It was built from observation.
From understanding, early on, what happens when a system is left unmanaged.
Failure is rarely immediate.
It begins small—contained, almost negligible, easy to dismiss as something temporary, something that can still be corrected before it turns into anything serious.
But small things don't stay small when left unmanaged. They accumulate, layer over each other, until the structure can no longer sustain their weight—and when it finally gives, it doesn't fracture gradually. It collapses.
I didn't learn that from theory.
I learned it by watching it happen right in front of my eyes.
It started with my father—what he described as nothing more than a pastime. A casino, he said, like it was something harmless, something controlled, something that existed outside the system of our lives.
At first, it was controlled—small losses, recoverable decisions, nothing that couldn't be corrected within the system we had. Money moved, but the structure held.
Until it didn't.
The losses became consistent.
Then irreversible.
He tried to recover what he lost—using what we had left. Savings. Assets. Anything that could be converted back into liquidity.
It didn't work.
There was no recovery, no correction—only a steady decline we couldn't reverse. What was meant to stabilize us only accelerated the loss, until there was nothing left to sustain.
And then, for a brief period, everything became quiet.
Not stable—just... still.
It looked controlled from the outside. As if the system had corrected itself. As if nothing had actually broken.
But that wasn't stability.
It was absence.
There was nothing left to lose.
And when internal resources were no longer enough, he introduced something else into the system—external input.
Debt.
Not from institutions that operate within structure. Not from systems that allow recalibration, negotiation, or recovery.
From a loan shark.
The kind that keeps records.
The kind that doesn't forget.
The kind that doesn't forgive.
Five hundred thousand pesos.
Non-negotiable.
And not limited to him alone.
When he secured the money, he registered and listed those who would be associated with the liability.
At the time, that list was simple.
Him.
And me.
My mother left when the system finally failed—when the losses became permanent, when there was nothing left to sustain, and whatever structure we had stopped functioning entirely. She didn't stay to endure it. She chose to leave it behind—filed for divorce, cut the connection cleanly, like removing herself from a system she no longer wanted to be part of.
The separation was efficient.
Decisive.
Final.
That was when I understood something clearly—failure, when left unmanaged, does not stay contained. It spreads, extending beyond its point of origin, until everything connected to it is affected.
So I adapted.
Not gradually, but immediately.
If stability could not be trusted to maintain itself, then it had to be enforced—controlled, monitored, sustained deliberately.
I had to help my father shoulder the debt. I needed money, not occasionally, but consistently. Quietly. Without drawing attention.
Because attention introduces variables.
And variables introduce risk.
Risk is something I cannot afford.
That was how my secret sideline began.
It started with a classmate who couldn't finish an activity on time. He was too focused on his dance club to keep up.
I told him I'd do it—for a price.
No favors. No exceptions.
He passed. No issues. Grateful.
I thought that was the end of it.
Then he asked if I could take on someone else—a friend of his. I agreed on one condition: my identity stayed hidden.
He passed the work along.
I delivered.
He paid.
After that, the pattern repeated.
I took on more requests.
A friend of a friend.
Someone who "heard about a guy" who could get things done.
No public posts. No names. Just private messages and closed group chats—places where discretion mattered more than speed.
And quietly, without announcements or proof, the work kept coming.
Desperate I.T. students at my university paid me to complete academic requirements they couldn't—or wouldn't—finish themselves. Projects. Portfolios. Systems. Code. Documentation written precisely enough to satisfy rubrics without triggering suspicion. Even senior students also reach out to me.
I didn't advertise.
I didn't pressure.
I didn't ask questions that weren't necessary.
Everything was anonymous. Because if the department finds out, I could be expelled. So, I have to stay hidden.
I have to be responsible for this, and after I finish helping my father to pay the loan, I'll end this sideline of mine.
It was discipline that made me do this.
The process never changed.
They sent the requirements.
I asked for the deadline.
I gave a fixed price.
Fifty percent upfront. Fifty percent upon delivery.
Payment was done through bank transfer—but never under my real name. The account I used was registered under a banking alias. No personal details. No identifiable information. Just a neutral handle that looked like any other digital payment ID.
Simple.
Legal.
Unremarkable.
All communication ran through an anonymous email address, and a prepaid cellphone number used just for this sideline. Files were exchanged through temporary cloud links with expiration dates.
Once the money transfer was confirmed, I started working.
I didn't ask who they were.
I didn't ask why they needed the work done.
And I didn't judge.
Most academic requirements didn't require the student's identity embedded in the work itself. My responsibility was the output—the system, the code, the documentation, and the money. What they submitted, and under whose name, was their decision.
When the files were delivered, the transaction ended.
Clean.
Quiet.
Professional.
If they disappeared, I didn't chase.
If they passed, I didn't expect gratitude.
And I made sure they wouldn't fail.
That was the agreement.
The work spread the way responsibility does—not loudly, but steadily.
No hype.
No advertising.
Just trust.
"He's reliable."
"Very easy to negotiate with."
"Student price on point."
"Delivers on time."
"Doesn't cause trouble."
"Worth it. Five out of five stars."
That was enough to keep it going.
That night, I sat at my desk finishing a portfolio request. Clean interface. Optimized backend. Documentation written with deliberate clarity. I uploaded the files to a temporary cloud link and set it to expire in twenty-four hours.
Then I sent the message to my client.
Me:
Files uploaded. Access expires in 24 hours.
Please confirm once downloaded.
Sent: 1:40 a.m.
A moment later, the notification appeared.
Unknown number:
Great! Done! Easy! I transferred the remaining payment to your bank account. Talk to you again soon.
Sent: 1:47 a.m.
I closed my laptop, rested my phone on top of it, and let my shoulders relax for the first time.
Another payment made.
Another deadline met.
Another successful request.
My phone buzzed beside me.
A new inquiry.
I picked it up calmly, already prepared to accept the request.
I didn't know their name.
I didn't need to.
The message arrived at exactly 1:48 a.m.
My phone vibrated once on the desk—sharp and deliberate.
I glanced at the screen without surprise.
And somewhere, deep beneath the calm I had trained myself to wear, something quietly shifted.
Unknown number:
Hey. Are you that secret helper that does the project shit and all?
Sent: 1:48 a.m.
I didn't react to the wording. People always sounded rough when they were panicking.
I typed back.
Me:
Yes.
Sent: 1:48 a.m.
There was no delay.
Unknown number:
Okay, I need your help.
Capstone system project.
Database + documentation.
Deadline: 48 hours.
I have to submit it by monday until 7 a.m.
I don't care how many request you got right now. Will pay extra if you want just prioritize me.
Sent: 1:49 a.m.
My fingers stopped moving.
Capstone.
That wasn't a regular requirement. That was the last gate before graduation. Miss it, and everything stalled—ceremony, credentials, future plans. Forty-eight hours wasn't just tight. It was reckless.
But desperation always showed itself the same way.
We were both desperate. He needs this requirement and I needed money.
I stared at the screen longer than usual, not because I was unsure—but because I was calculating.
Time.
Complexity.
Risk.
I don't have any pending requests for now, and any tasks or requirements for myself that I needed to do. And the next two days will be weekend so it's doable.
Then I replied.
Me:
I can do it. Since you are a new client,
these are my terms:
No meetings.
No calls.
Fifty percent upfront.
Full refund if I fail to deliver.
Sent: 1:50 a.m.
The response came immediately.
Unknown number:
I don't expect you to fail.
I expect you to take this seriously.
I can pay more if you want.
Money isn't an issue.
Sent: 1:50 a.m.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled slowly.
Not arrogance.
Fear.
People who weren't desperate didn't say things like that.
I didn't rush to reassure him. I didn't soften the terms. Professional boundaries mattered—especially with clients who thought money could erase urgency.
I typed carefully.
Me:
Then we'll do this properly.
This is a complex system with a rushed deadline.
I'll take it—on double rate.
I'll still guarantee delivery.
Sent: 1:51 a.m.
A pause.
Three seconds.
Then—
Unknown number:
Deal. How much do you need?
Sent: 1:51 a.m.
I didn't smile. I didn't feel triumph.
Just pure responsibility.
Me:
₱5,000 total.
₱2,500 upfront.
₱2,500 upon delivery.
Sent: 1:52 a.m.
Another pause—longer this time.
I waited without pressure, phone resting face-up on the desk. If he backed out, I would sleep. If he agreed, I wouldn't.
Finally, the reply arrived.
Unknown number:
I can do the project myself.
I just don't have the time anymore.
Something came up and I couldn't finish it on time.
I need help covering this or I won't graduate.
Send me the payment details. I will send you the full amount.
Sent: 1:53 a.m.
I didn't rush. I didn't judge that person as well. Each one of them had their own reasons. Some are just pure lazy, some had an unexpected accident, others say they have to attend burial of a family member, and all sort of reasons that I never cared of.
Clients who panicked tended to make mistakes. I preferred to stay steady—give them something solid to follow.
I switched apps on my phone, copied the details I'd used hundreds of times before, then pasted them into the chat.
Me:
Commonwealth Digital Bank
Account Name: O. Calder
Account Number: HDB-4729-8831
Amount: ₱5,000
Notify me once transferred.
Sent: 1:54 a.m.
The alias wasn't tied to my real name. It never was. Just an initial and a surname that meant nothing—clean, neutral, forgettable. The kind of account people glanced at once and never thought about again.
That was the point.
I placed my phone face down on the desk and leaned back in my chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling. I didn't feel anxious. I rarely did anymore. Worry wasted energy, and energy was something I couldn't afford to lose.
A few seconds passed.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number:
Done.
Sent: 1:56 a.m.
Then, I received a bank notifcation—
Incoming transfer received
Amount: ₱5,000
Account: O. Calder
Sender: J. L. V*********
Reference number: WV-098679-00-1
No sender name reveal.
Just the confirmation.
That was enough.
I exhaled quietly—not in relief, but acknowledgment. The agreement had started. That was all.
I typed one last message.
Me:
Payment received.
Send the full requirements and files at this email [email protected] and
I'll begin immediately.
Sent: 1:58 a.m.
I set the phone aside, opened my laptop, and created a new folder on my desktop.
"Capstone_Project_01"
Whatever panic had driven him to message a stranger at nearly two in the morning didn't matter anymore. From this point on, the responsibility was mine.
And I would see it through.
No name. Just a handle.
That was enough.
* * *
For the last two days, I hadn't slept.
Not properly. Not deeply. Just fragments of consciousness stitched together by black, over-roasted coffee. The kind of drink that didn't wake you up—it simply refused to let you fall over.
My body begged to shut down. My hands ignored it.
They moved on muscle memory alone—typing, testing, fixing, documenting. Fingers flying across the keyboard while my mind hovered somewhere between precision and collapse.
By dawn, the schema was stable.
By noon, the logic errors were gone.
The second night vanished into documentation—clean, structured, defensible. The kind professors loved. The kind that passed audits. The kind that saved careers.
I tested everything.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time, because failure isn't an option for me.
At exactly 6:39 a.m. on Monday, I zipped the final files and prepared to upload them to my temporary cloud link—the same one I had used for years to send the files to my clients.
Almost done.
I opened the site—
—and my screen froze.
A banner loaded slowly at the top, each pixel arriving like bad news taking its time.
!!Scheduled Maintenance!!
Service unavailable for the next 24 hours
"No," I said mortified.
I refreshed the page.
Same message.
I cleared the cache.
Restarted the browser.
Opened a different one.
Tried from my phone.
Nothing.
The server was down.
"Not now," I muttered, standing abruptly. "Please. Not now."
Twenty-four hours.
That might as well have been a lifetime.
The files were finished—perfect, polished, ready—but the delivery system I had trusted for years had chosen the worst possible moment to betray me.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number:
It's Monday and almost 7 a.m.
Where's my capstone project?
You're done already, RIGHT?
Sent: 6:41 a.m.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe.
Panic wouldn't help.
Rushing wouldn't help.
I typed carefully, deliberately, the way you do when you're trying not to crack.
Me:
I'm done. I'm having a delivery issue.
The server I use is under emergency
maintenance. I'm working on an
alternative now to send the file to you.
Sent: 6:42 a.m.
The reply came almost instantly. No hesitation. No patience.
Unknown number:
WHAT THE FUCK!
I don't care how.
I just need the files.
We can meet.
You can wear a mask.
Hoodie. Or cover yourself up with a black cloak. Whatever.
I don't care if you see me.
Sent: 6:42 a.m.
Then—
Unknown number:
I NEED MY DAMN PROJECT NOWWWW!!! I PAID YOU TO DO IT!
FUCKER!!!
Sent: 6:42 a.m.
I frowned.
Meeting was never an option. It never had been. And even through text alone, I could hear the shouting. Sharp. Aggressive. Definitely a guy.
Me:
I don't do meetups.
Give me a few minutes.
Sent: 6:43 a.m.
I turned back to my laptop to see if there are other ways I can send the files to him.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number:
I DON'T HAVE A "FEW MINUTES"!
THEY'LL LOCK SUBMISSIONS SOON.
IF YOU ARE DONE, JUST HAND IT TO ME.
MEET ME AT THE UNI! I WILL PAY YOUR DAMN TAXI! OR SEND ME YOUR ADDRESS, I WILL GO THERE TO GRAB IT!
Sent: 6:44 a.m.
For the first time in years, my chest tightened.
The anxiety hit hard, sharp, immediate—mirroring the way his messages screamed in capital letters. Loud. Demanding. Unrelenting.
This wasn't a mistake.
This wasn't negligence.
It was timing.
And timing didn't care how careful you were.
I typed slowly, each word heavier than the last.
Me:
I'm trying to recover access now.
If I can't, I'll need another way to get this to you.
Sent: 6:45 a.m.
The message lingered on the screen longer than it should have.
Because for the first time—my rules might not survive the deadline.
Then—
Unknown number:
I TOLD YOU, JUST MEET UP WITH ME! AND STOP TRYING TO RECOVER IT! THE SUBMISSIONS WILL LOCK SOON!
Sent: 6:46 a.m.
Unknown number:
IT IS FUCKING 14 MINUTES LEFT! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO!
Sent: 6:46 a.m.
I didn't reply right away.
I didn't know what to say.
I usually handled things calmly—methodical, controlled, composed—but this was different. The pressure was suffocating, the situation collapsing faster than I could stabilize it.
Then the messages came.
One word at a time.
Like bullets.
Unknown number:
I
Sent: 6:46 a.m.
Unknown number:
NEED
Sent: 6:46 a.m.
Unknown number:
MY
Sent: 6:46 a.m.
Unknown number:
FUCKING
Sent: 6:46 a.m.
Unknown number:
CAPSTONE
Sent: 6:46 a.m.
Unknown number:
PROJECT
Sent: 6:47 a.m.
Unknown number:
NOW
Sent: 6:47 a.m.
Unknown number:
MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!
Sent: 6:47 a.m.
He kept spamming me like he had all the time in the world.
Like my panic was entertainment.
Like my concentration was expendable.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing—every vibration another reminder that the clock was still moving, whether I was ready or not.
We had less than fifteen minutes before the submission locked.
Approximately thirteen minutes.
And for the first time since I started doing this—
I had no idea what to do next.
I stared at my laptop, mind racing, weighing every possible method I had left.
Think.
Think.
Then it hit me.
The 'submission lock'!
That meant the project wasn't sent through email or cloud storage anymore—it had to go through the university portal.
And if that was the case...
I could log in.
I could access his account.
I could submit it myself.
My breath caught.
"Yes," I muttered, a sharp spark of relief cutting through the panic. "That's the only way left."
I grabbed my phone again.
Almost fifty unread messages and still counting.
I didn't dare open them. I already knew what they were—caps-locked rage, profanity stacked on profanity, words thrown like fists. None of it mattered now.
I started typing.
My phone kept buzzing in my hand as I wrote, vibrating nonstop like it was alive and furious. He was relentless. Aggressively persistent.
Good thing I wasn't meeting him in person.
That would've been the end of me.
Me:
I'm sorry about this. I know this is really inconvenient.
But I think what we can do is I can open your student account portal. Since the files are already ready,
I'll be the one to submit it for you.
This way we'll make the deadline.
Don't worry—I won't access anything
else or keep your information.
This is just to get it submitted on time.
Sent: 6:51 a.m.
Every second ticked louder in my head.
Like a bomb counting down.
The buzzing stopped.
Silence.
For a moment, I wondered if he'd finally snapped.
Then—
Unknown number:
k.
Sent: 6:51 a.m.
I blinked.
No block letters.
No shouting.
He'd calmed down. At least enough to type like a human being again.
Good.
Me:
Please send me your student username and password.After this, you can change
your password immediately.
Also, what's the unit name so I
can upload it to the correct subject.
Sent: 6:51 a.m.
I waited.
One second.
Two.
Then—
Unknown number:
Whatever. Just do it.
BBI224018
pass Fvckth1s5h1t!!!
Subject: Capstone System Project – Database Management System
Sent: 6:51 a.m.
I sighed.
That password was... impressive. Technically strong. Uppercase, lowercase, numbers, symbols.
But completely unhinged.
Good and bad at the same time.
It says a lot about himself.
Me:
Okay.
Give me a few minutes.
I'll let you know once it's done.
Sent: 6:52 a.m.
I switched screens and logged into the student portal using the credentials he sent.
The page loaded.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Then the dashboard appeared.
A greeting flashed at the top of the screen.
"Good morning, Jace Lorenzo Villanueva."
I froze.
Just for half a second.
So that was his name.
This was the first time I had ever crossed my own rules. Names weren't supposed to exist. Clients were just unknown numbers, deadlines, and anonymous transactions.
But I didn't have a choice.
End of Chapter 1