Page 2 of Knight

Eva: Michael is my brother. He disappeared six weeks ago after starting an internship at Horizon Tech. No one will help me.

There’s a pause this time. Longer than the others. For a moment, I think they’re gone, like all the others who promised to help and disappeared when I pressed for answers. The silence stretches until familiar disappointment flows through me.

But then the message appears.

T3ch4L1f3: I’m sorry. That must be hell.

The words hit harder than I expect, breaking something inside me that I’ve been desperately trying to hold together. No one else has said that—not the police, not Michael’s friends. Not even me. Everyone just keeps telling me to move on, to accept that he’s gone. But this stranger—their words feel real. Genuine.

Eva: It is.

I wait for the next message, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. When it comes, it’s simple.

T3ch4L1f3: Do you want to talk about him?

My throat tightens, and I blink back tears. I don’t trust this person. I don’t even know who they are. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like someone’s listening. Someone understands the weight of this silence, this waiting, this desperate search for answers.

I stare at the screen. This is stupid. Dangerous.

But hope is already tightening its grip, just like every time before.

Maybe that makes me the perfect target. Or maybe, just maybe, someone finally sees how lost I am. I take a deep breath, and begin to type.

Eva: Yeah. I think I do.

CHAPTER ONE

Knight

R0GUE_N3XUS:TRANSFER CONFIRMED. ENCRYPTED CONNECTION ENDS IN FIVE SECONDS. SIGNING OFF.

Lines of codeblur on my center monitor as the final transaction completes. Thirty-six hours straight of coding. Now, ghost images linger when I blink. Patterns flash at the edges of my vision. But it’s worth it—sevenfigures worth it.

The payment notification glows on my phone, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate the sheer number of zeros. Another corporate giant brought to their knees by a few well-placed keystrokes. They never learn to check their back doors.

I transfer ninety percent into long-term storage accounts, watching the numbers tick over. People love to say money can’t buy happiness. Those people have clearly never watched seven figures disappear into an account that technically doesn't exist.

Happiness might not have a price tag, but security absolutely does. And I learned a long time ago that in my line of work, security is worth every stolen cent.

My fingers cramp as I reach for my coffee mug, my hand finding it on instinct. The liquid inside has congealed intosomething that probably violates biological warfare treaties. If the government knew what was growing in here, they’d classify it as a weapon of mass destruction.

I should take it to the kitchen. Not because I'm going to wash it—the last three mugs can attest to that—but because this one might actually achieve sentience if I leave it here any longer. The last thing I need is my coffee staging a rebellion.

The three monitors cast their familiar blue glow across my workstation as I push back from the desk. Each piece of equipment in here cost more than most people's cars. All of it customized, modified, pushed past what their manufacturers thought possible.

My computers don't try to make small talk. Don't ask what I'm doing this weekend. Don’t make a scene when I forget to turn up for a date. Don't tell me I should get out more. They just do exactly what I tell them to do.

Unlike literally every other aspect of life that involves actual human beings.

My phone lights up with more messages from my brothers. Their fourth attempt at contact today. Because apparently ignoring the first three wasn’t a clear enough message.

Bishop: Call me. Need to discuss something.

Rook: You still breathing in there?

Like the other three messages, I ignore them. But they're family. The only people I trust besides myself, and some days I'm not even sure about me.

Bishop erases lives, rewrites identities so perfectly even the government believes them. Rook? He made problems disappear permanently—at least until he got caught. Turns out, prison orange wasn’t his color, and he has no desire to revisit it.

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