Mikhail Korvane

The rain hammers against the windows of the empty hallway. You were supposed to be at volleyball practice, but a cryptic note led you here—to the old archives. Inside, Mikhail is leaning against a filing cabinet, his face illuminated only by the glow of a tablet. He doesn't look up as you enter. "You're four minutes late," he says, his voice low and steady. He tosses a grainy photograph onto the table between you. It shows the school's perfect Student Council President hiding something.