Page 103 of Reckless: Chaos

The next junction should lead to the primary server access. Just have to cross fifty feet of exposed corridor, pick two locks, and bypass whatever security Sterling’s paranoia dreamed up. Simple.

Right up until that hunting echo resolves into distinctive footsteps behind me.

Soft. Calculated. Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Someone else moves like I do.

Someone else thinks like I do.

Someone else...

The realization hits like a system crash—I’m not the only Sterling who knows these tunnels.

I force myself to keep moving, even as every instinct screams to run. The server room’s close—I can feel it in the way the air changes, that distinct hum of cooling systems that speaks of serious hardware nearby.

A door clicks shut somewhere behind me.

Too close.

Way too close.

My pulse hammers as I press into an alcove, letting pipes and shadows hide me. Not running. Not yet. Count the footsteps like Finn taught me. Map the pattern like Ryker drilled into me.

Click. Pause. Click.

They’re not even trying to hide anymore. Just steady, measured steps drawing ever closer. The kind of confidence that comes from knowing you’ve got your prey cornered.

Twenty feet to the server room.

Another click of a door.

Fifteen feet.

That echo again, closer still.

Ten feet.

My fingers brush the keypad just as something metal scrapes against concrete—that distinctive sound of a weapon being drawn.

Well, fuck.

Options spiral through my mind like compiling code. I could run—but that’s what they expect. Could fight—but those footsteps carry trained killer in every step. Could...

The emerald beanie shifts against my scalp, and suddenly I know exactly what Jinx would do.

Sometimes the best defense is controlled chaos.

I draw the tire iron from my belt, gauge the distance to the nearest pipe, and grin into the darkness. Time to make some noise.

“Come on, big brother,” I whisper, hefting the tire iron. It’s a guess really, but the more I think about it the more it makes perfect sense. Sterling would train his own son to hunt his daughter. “Let’s see if genetics really count for anything.” I take a moment to admire the beautiful symmetry of it all—using a tire iron to cause mayhem in the basement of my father’s perfecttower. If hacking has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the most elegant solution is just breaking shit with extreme prejudice. “Family reunion, Sterling style. Bet they don’t make Hallmark cards for this.”

The pipe rings like a church bell when I slam the iron into it. Steam hisses through the fresh crack, filling the corridor with artificial fog. More importantly, it triggers exactly what I hoped—emergency sensors screaming to life, mixing with the sound of rushing boots.

Controlled chaos, meet perfect timing.

Guards converge from both directions, their shouts mixing with alarm klaxons. But they’re not my target. Through the steam, I catch a glimpse of my real hunter—tall, precise movements, Sterling grace in every step.

He wasn’t expecting me to choose chaos. To deliberately draw attention when I’m so close to the server room. That’s the thing about being raised by Sterling—you learn to overthink everything.

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