Page 16 of Knight

Motion is data. Data is truth. And I need to focus. Every distraction, every wasted second is an opening for whoever set this up.

I run my diagnostic tablet over the laptop, checking for unusual power signatures or hidden transmission devices. Basic precautions for unknown hardware. The scan reveals standard components, normal power readings. My shoulders tighten, frustration mounting.

It’s almost disappointingly ordinary.

The hard drive comes out first. I connect it to my isolated testing environment through multiple security protocols. Any malware, any hidden processes, will trigger containment measures. The system runs its first diagnostic. No immediate red flags. No encrypted partitions.

I clone the drive before touching anything. Never work with originals. Never trust what you see. Never assume coincidence. These aren't just rules, they're survival techniques, etched into my bones from every mistake I've learned the hard way.

While the diagnostics are running, I work on taking everything else apart. The wireless card and Bluetooth module detach easily. I document each step, taking photographs of every component.

People think hacking is all lines of code and digital finesse. They forget the hardware, forget that even the smallest component can betray you. A single modified chip, a tiny transmitter. That’s all it takes to compromise an entire system.

Inside reveals consumer-grade mediocrity. Standard RAM. Basic processor. No modifications. No suspicious components. Nothing to explain how she got through my security.

Frustration gnaws at me, a simmering irritation that refuses to be ignored. There has to besomething, some hidden crack, some oversight I've yet to see. The absence of answers is almost worse than finding a flaw in the first place.

Another check of the bathroom feed shows her head down. Small tremors register on the motion sensors. The audio feed picks up irregular breathing. Irrelevant data points—or so I try to convince myself. But the doubt persists, an annoying whisper at the edge of my thoughts. What if I'm missing something crucial? Every small tremor, every irregular breath could mean something more. I can't afford to overlook anything.

I drag my attention back to the harddrive. System files first. I trace execution logs, temp files, browser caches. Looking for the tools she must have used to breach my security. Twenty minutes of deep scanning yields nothing. No specialized software. No hacking tools. Not even a fucking password manager. Nope, this girl keeps them stored in her browser. Who doesn’t keep their passwords encrypted, for fuck’s sake?

Her browser history wakes up my curiosity. Missing persons websites, police tip lines, and private investigator services. Scattered social media traces.Thousandsof searches.

Email archives expand the pattern. There are messages to police departments, missing persons organizations, private investigators. Each one timestamped, each one documenting a path that seems to go nowhere.

And then I find a folder labeled ‘Knight,’ and my fingers pause on the keyboard.

What the fuck?

Screenshots fill the screen. Message logs.Hundredsof conversations spanning weeks. Late-night exchanges about her brother's case. Links to articles about missing persons. Regular updates on supposed progress.

Myname.Mysecurity codes.Mysystems.

But the messages ...

I pull up three screens of logs. A pattern emerges with brutal clarity. Daily contact. Quick responses. Follow-up questions. Personal details. The messages even include cat memes. A flicker of something twisted, darkly humorous, runs through me.

Cat memes.

Of all the absurd ways to try to impersonate me ... they thoughtthiswas the kind of shit I waste my time with?

It's almost insulting. Whoever did this clearly has no idea who they're dealing with.

I don't do conversations.

I don’t randomly message strangers after reading their sob stories.

I don't ask questions.

Idefinitelydon't send fucking cat memes.

Someone has been using my name, and not even bothering to imitate my methods.

Why, though? Why use me to talk to this woman?

My identity, myreputationhas been turned into a tool for manipulation. She had no preconceptions about me. No way to know these friendly, supportive messages were nothing like reality.

They just needed my name to make her trust them enough to hand over access codes to my building and make her come here.

---