Page 17 of Knight

Butwhy?

The motion sensors register another shift. A small movement, a sound caught between a breath and a sob. I ignore her, and dive deeper into the message logs.

The timestamps create a pattern. Regular contact. Clearly building trust. Feeding her hope in careful doses. Three weeks of digital manipulation, each message an obviously calculated move, each response a tightening noose, all leading her right tomydoor. And showing me a truth I can’t ignore anymore.

Someone orchestrated every step. They preyed on her vulnerability, exploited her desperation, and used my identity as the bait. Whoever it is turned her into tools, used her as a piece on a chessboard. Manipulating her with such precision, such fuckingarrogance, that it makes my blood boil.

Her brother's case unfolds through scattered files, and I piece together the story.

Michael vanished between Friday night and Monday morning a couple of months ago. When she reported him missing, law enforcement found nothing. No forced entry to his apartment, no signs of struggle. Since his disappearance, there’s been no bank activity, no social media posts.

The silence is damning. It's as if he was plucked from existence, every trace wiped clean. It's a clean disappearance, almosttooclean.

The lack of evidence bugs me. My frustration grows as I follow each search to its inevitable dead end. The deeper I go, the more it looks like someone took meticulous care to leave no trace behind. The thought of someone doing this with such precision sets off alarm bells inside my head.

There's no way this is a typical disappearance. Something weird is going on beneath the surface.

After weeks of trying to find him alone, someone reached out ... Just as she was on the verge of giving up, of running out of leads she could follow.

Someone usingmyname offered help.

The folders named ‘work’ yield nothing remarkable. Library schedules. Event planning documents. The photograph folder contains ordinary moments. Concerts. Friends. Family gatherings. What’s not normal is that none of them are recent. The latest is over two years old, judging by the date stamp.

More data points forming a pattern I don't want to see, don’t want to acknowledge.

The security feed shows her still slumped against the wall. The same position she's been in for hours while I searched for complex intrusions that don't fucking exist.

Someone is not only using my name. They've turned it into a weapon. They took the time to create an entire digital relationship with the girl in my bathroom. Built her trust piece by piece. All to ensure she'd follow their breadcrumbs straight to me.

It doesn’t matter how much I search, I already know the answer about where she got the access codes from. She didn’t steal them.

They weregivento her.

Someone somehow obtained access to my security codes, then orchestrated this entire scenario. They knew exactly how I'd react to a stranger who used them and showed up here. They knew I'd see her as a threat. And probably planned for every security measure, every protocol, every fucking response I’d give.

They didn't just breach my security.

They turned me into exactly what they needed me to be.

Which means I’m still fucking missing something, because she’s locked up in the bathroom, and the fucking hard drive is clean. Sowhyis she here?

The bathroom sensors record another micro-movement. Muscles cramping from hours restrained.

Rage burns through my chest. My muscles lock, my jaw clenches until it aches. It's a fire that won't be quenched. Through my fingers. Through every line of fucking code I'm going to use to hunt down whoever is behind whatever game this is.

The pulse of adrenaline sharpens everything. My heartbeat becomes a metronome, counting down the seconds until I make my move. My eyes narrow as I disconnect the hard drive. Thedetached, analytical focus I’m known for is gone, replaced by something darker, something vengeful.

They want to play games? Well, they just made their first mistake.

I grab the key to the handcuffs.

Someone wanted her here. Wanted her alone with me. Wantedthisexact situation.

They think they understand me. Think they know how I’ll respond. But they have no idea what I'm truly capable of.

My resolve hardens, every instinct pushing me to prove them wrong.

I walk to the bathroom, my footsteps echoing off the walls.

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