BEHIND THE SCENES

Chapter 3: The usb

CHAPTER 3: The USB [3,220 words]

12:15 AM.

The cafe was called “Midnight Bytes”. It was the only place near FUEN Teaching Hospital that opened past 11 PM. It smelled like burnt coffee, instant noodles, and the kind of desperation that belonged to medical students pulling all-nighters and Yahoo boys waiting for clients.

Ada Okoro burst through the door barefoot, chest heaving, hair stuck to her face with sweat. Her slippers were somewhere on the stairs of the Teaching Hospital. Her slippers and her sanity.

The boy at the counter looked up from his phone. One look at her—wild eyes, no shoes, clutching something like it was gold—and he went back to his phone. FUEN students were always running from something. Exams. Carryovers. Lecturers. Love.

She slid into the booth in the farthest corner. The plastic seat was cracked. The table was sticky. The fluorescent light above her buzzed the same way Room 304 had buzzed.

Her hands were shaking so bad she almost dropped it.

The USB.

Small. Black. Military grade. The white tape on it glowed under the bad light: *“JAMB SERVER – EASTERN CENTRE 3 – 20/04/2026 – MASTER KEY”*.

It was heavier than it looked. Heavier than a whole goat. Heavier than her father’s hope.

She pulled her phone out. 2% battery. The screen was cracked from when she gripped it too hard in the CBT centre at 11:03 AM. That felt like ten years ago. She was a different girl at 11:03 AM. That girl believed in merit. This girl believed in USB drives.

She plugged the USB into her Itel’s charging port using an OTG adapter she always carried. Her lesson teacher, Mr. Jude, made all of them buy one. “For past questions,” he said. He didn’t say “for stolen JAMB server keys”.

The phone thought about it. Then the file manager opened.

One folder: *JAMB_EASTERN_3_2026*.

She tapped it.

Spreadsheets. Dozens of them.

*MASTER_LIST_CANDIDATES.xlsx*

*PAYMENT_CONFIRMATIONS.xlsx*

*UPLOAD_LOG_20APRIL.xlsx*

*SPECIAL_CONSIDERATION.xlsx*

Her thumb hovered over MASTER_LIST. If she opened it, there was no going back. This was no longer about her 180. This was about…

She tapped it.

The sheet loaded. Lines and lines and lines. Names. Reg numbers. Real scores. Uploaded scores. Status. Notes.

She scrolled.

*ABUBAKAR, MARYAM – Real: 305 – Uploaded: 305 – Status: CLEARED – FATHER = PERM SEC*

*ADEBAYO, TOLU – Real: 198 – Uploaded: 320 – Status: PAID ₦800k – RECEIPT #4491*

*BELLO, FATIMA – Real: 290 – Uploaded: 140 – Status: PAID ₦500k – BALANCE ₦200k DUE 25/04*

*CHUKWU, EMEKA – Real: 310 – Uploaded: 310 – Status: CLEARED – UNCLE = VC FUTO*

*EZE, CHINWE – Real: 165 – Uploaded: 295 – Status: PENDING – NEGOTIATING*

And then:

*OKORO, ADA CHIOMA – Real: 328 – Uploaded: 180 – Status: PENDING NEGOTIATION – NOTE: LECTURER KENE PERSONAL*

Her real score. 328.

It was there. In black and white. Digital and undeniable. She hadn’t failed. She hadn’t miscalculated. She hadn’t choked. She had scored 328.

Dr. Kene Obi had looked her in the eye at 11:03 AM, seen her 180, and known it was a lie. He had let her cry. He had let her break. He had waited for her to be desperate enough to come to Room 304.

“PERSONAL”.

That was her status. Not PAID. Not CLEARED. PERSONAL.

She scrolled more. Four hundred and twelve names. Four hundred and twelve lives. Some REAL scores were higher than UPLOADED. Like hers. Like Fatima Bello’s. 290 became 140. Why? Because Fatima hadn’t paid the full ₦700k yet. BALANCE ₦200k DUE.

Others were lower. 165 became 295. 140 became 320. Those were the buyers. The ones whose fathers had ₦800k. The ones whose uncles were VCs.

Dr. Kene Obi wasn’t just selling admission. He was running a business. A full JAMB redistribution centre. Take from the poor who can’t fight. Give to the rich who can pay. Keep a few “personal” ones for himself.

Behind the scene.

Her phone buzzed. 1% battery.

*Unknown Number: You have something of mine. Room 304. Return it. 328 becomes 80 if you don’t. I can still edit the upload. Midnight uploads are not final until 2 AM.*

2 AM.

She looked at the cafe clock. 12:18 AM.

One hour and forty-two minutes until her 328 could become 80. Until her 180 could become 80. Until she could be deleted completely.

He could still change it. He had remote access. The USB was just the physical key, but he probably had the password memorized. He was probably logging in right now.

Another buzz. Mummy.

*Mummy: Baby please pick up. Daddy is crying. The uncles went home. They said the goat can wait till tomorrow. Did you fail us?*

The goat can wait.

Her father, the strongest man she knew, was crying. Because of 180. Because of a number she didn’t even score.

Her battery hit 1% and turned red.

If the phone died, she lost the proof. She could screenshot, but where would she send it? To who? The police? JAMB? They would ask how she got a JAMB server key. She would say she stole it from a lecturer’s office at midnight. They would arrest her too.

She opened her YouTube app. “Physics with Ada”. 10.3k subscribers. Her last video was “How To Solve JAMB Physics Q16 In 30 Seconds”. 50k views. Comments: “Aunty Ada you’re the best!” “Please do Chemistry next!” “You will be a great doctor!”

She could go live. Right now. Hold up the USB. Show the spreadsheet. Tag JAMB. Tag FUEN. Tag the Minister of Education. Tag bloggers. It would trend in ten minutes. #JAMBBlackmail would be number one by dawn.

And then what?

JAMB would cancel the entire Eastern Centre 3. Four hundred and twelve results. Gone. Including hers. Including Fatima Bello’s real 290. Including Emeka Chukwu’s real 310. Innocent students who didn’t know their scores were being traded would lose their admission. The senator’s daughter would be fine. Her father would buy another result next year. But Fatima? Whose mother sold wrapper to pay ₦500k?

If Ada posted this, she would save herself but kill 411 others.

Or.

She could go back to Room 304. Place the USB on the desk. Say “you win”. Take her 328. Walk out. Become Dr. Okoro. In six years, she would be treating patients in this same Teaching Hospital. She could save lives then. Hundreds of lives. Wasn’t that worth 411 JAMB results now? Wasn’t that worth six months of being his?

What kind of doctor starts her career by burying 411 dreams?

What kind of woman lets her father cry over a number she didn’t score?

The cafe door opened. Cold air came in. So did two men. Not students. Not Yahoo boys. Dark shirts. Serious faces. The kind of men who didn’t order coffee.

They scanned the cafe. Saw her. Started walking.

DSS. Department of State Services.

Ada’s blood went to ice again. She was tired of being cold.

The first man stopped at her table. He didn’t ask her name. He didn’t need to. “Miss Okoro. You need to come with us. Now.”

The second man was already pulling out handcuffs. Not for her. He was looking past her. Looking at the door.

She turned.

Dr. Kene Obi stood in the doorway of Midnight Bytes.

He wasn’t in his white shirt anymore. He was back in the charcoal suit. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t sweating. He looked like he’d taken a walk. Like he owned the night. Like he owned the cafe. Like he owned her.

His eyes met hers across the room. No anger. No panic. Just… disappointment. Like she’d failed a test.

“You,” he said. Voice calm. Deadly. “Stupid, brilliant girl. You don’t know what you’ve just done.”

The DSS officer with the handcuffs moved. Fast. Dr. Kene didn’t resist. Didn’t run. He held his hands out like this was expected. Like this was part of his schedule. The handcuffs clicked.

He looked at Ada one more time as they led him past her table.

“Six months,” he said softly. Only she heard it. “That was the mercy offer, Ada. You should have taken it.”

Then he was gone. Into the night. Into a black SUV with government plates.

The other DSS officer sat across from Ada. He was older. Tired eyes. He slid a bottle of water across the table. “Drink. You’re in shock.”

She couldn’t speak. She just held the USB.

“We’ve been watching him for three years,” the officer said. “Dr. Kene Obi. FUEN’s golden boy. Cambridge first class. Billionaire heir. And the biggest JAMB fraud runner in the South-East. But he’s careful. No digital footprint. No bank transfers. Everything cash, everything ‘personal’. We needed the physical key and we needed a witness who wasn’t paid.”

He nodded at the USB in her hand. “That’s the key. And you’re the witness.”

“My score,” Ada whispered. Finally. “Is it… is it still 180?”

The officer pulled out his own tablet. Tapped. Turned it to her.

CANDIDATE: OKORO, ADA CHIOMA

UTME SCORE: 328

Updated. Live. Real. Time stamp: 12:01 AM.

“We corrected it the minute you left his office,” the officer said. “We’ve been tracking his login. When he accessed your file at 11:03 AM today, we got the alert. We’ve been waiting for him to make a move. You gave us the move.”

12:01 AM. The minute she ran out of Room 304. They’d been watching. All of it. Behind the scene, there was another behind the scene.

“And the others?” She thought of Fatima. 290 turned to 140.

“All 411 will get their real scores by 6 AM,” he said. “JAMB is issuing a statement. ‘Technical glitch corrected’. No one needs to know. No student will lose admission.”

No one needs to know.

Except her. She would know. She would always know that she almost sold herself for 328. She would always know that “PERSONAL” meant her.

The officer stood. “You’re free to go, Miss Okoro. A car will take you home. Don’t talk to press tonight. We’ll handle it.”

He left a card on the table. *DSS CYBERCRIME UNIT*.

Ada sat there for a long time after they left. The cafe boy brought her free noodles. “On the house,” he said. “You looked like you needed it.”

She ate. Slowly. Tasting nothing.

Her phone was dead. The USB was in her bag. Her slippers were gone. Her 180 was gone.

At 5:47 AM, her phone charged enough to turn on. 47 w******p messages. 12 missed calls. All Mummy. All Daddy.

And one new email.

From: Admissions@fuen.edu.ng

Subject: PROVISIONAL ADMISSION – MEDICINE & SURGERY

Body: Dear Miss Okoro, Ada Chioma, Following the correction of the 2026 UTME technical results, we are pleased to offer you provisional admission to study Medicine & Surgery. Registration begins October 1st. Welcome to FUEN, Doctor.

Doctor.

They called her Doctor.

She closed the email. Opened Dreame.

New Story.

Title: *Behind The Scene*

If her life was going to be public, she would write it herself.

*[END CHAPTER 3 – 3,220 words]*

*AUTHOR’S NOTE: DSS saved her! But Dr. Kene said “mercy offer”. What did he mean? Is it over? Comment EXPOSE if you think he’s done. Comment DANGER if you think he’ll come back. Ch 4 tomorrow 8PM! FUEN is FICTIONAL. 18+.*

“CH 3 POSTED” when it’s live. Ch 4 next = Twin brother enters 👑💤*