Page 64 of Knight

The call ends. Knight stares at the phone for a couple of seconds before setting it down. When he looks up, the intensity in his eyes makes me turn away.

Questions burn in my throat, but the expression on his face suggests that now would be a bad time to voice them. Instead, I stay silent while he returns to analyzing the logs, and try to work out why someone like Knight would be warning people away from this situation.

The contrast between my quiet life before meeting Knight and this current reality hits me hard. A week ago, my biggest worry was whether the police would turn up at my door and tell me my brother had been found. Now I’m in a safehouse with a man who treats security systems like puzzle pieces, watching him unravel whatever game his mentor is playing with our lives.

His fingers resume their tapping against the desk, but the rhythm is different now. More focused. Like the call cleared something in his mind.

My thoughts shift to those late nights in the stacks, messaging someone I thought was Knight. Someone who always seemed to know what I wanted to hear.

The isolation of those evening shifts made me vulnerable. It’s clear to me now. No one noticed the dark circles under my eyes from staying up too late, searching for answers. No one questioned why I spent my breaks searching for news articles, or calling hospitals asking about any John Does that might have turned up. No one saw how desperate I was becoming.

No one, except the person pretending to be Knight.

The tapping stops abruptly. When I look up, Knight is staring at something on the screen, his expression shifting from focused to intense in a way that speeds up my heart.

“What—”

He holds up his hand for silence. His attention stays fixed on the screen, and I’m reminded that this is what he does. This is who he is. Someone who can look at streams of data and see patterns no one else can see. Someone who can take apart a virus and find messages hidden in its attack. Someone who just warned people away from whatever game we’re caught up in.

The silence goes on, broken only by the soft hum of the generator. Outside, the world continues, unaware of the tension filling this small space, and the way Knight’s focus has sharpened into something almost predatory as he studies whatever he’s found.

My wrists itch beneath their bandages, a constant reminder of how this started. How thoroughly Victor manipulated me into delivering what he needed. The late-night messages, the build-up of trust, the way he used my desperate need to find Michael. All of it designed to get me into Knight’s apartment, carrying that phone.

But why? What game requires this level of preparation? What could be worth spending weeks engineering the perfect way to breach Knight’s security?

Movement draws my attention as Knight shifts position, his hands moving back to the laptop’s keyboard. His methodical way of working reminds me of the way I organize books in the library. But where I deal with paper, he manipulates data and code. The irony isn’t lost on me. I spend so much time around stories, but failed to recognize when I was being written into one.

“You keep staring at me.” Knight doesn’t look up from the screen. “It’s distracting.”

“Sorry. I was just …” I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.

I was justwhat?Watching him work? Trying to understand how I ended up in this mess? Wondering who he was warning away? What he’s not telling me?

“Think quieter.” His fingers move across the keyboard. “Your mental spiraling is giving me a headache.”

I should be offended by his sharp tone, but there’s something almost reassuring about his constant sarcasm. It’s real to me in a way those late-night messages never were. The fake Knight was all understanding, and warmth, and sympathy. The real Knight doesn’t even try to pretend to be anything except what he is.

And what is that?

An accomplished coder, for certain. A hacker, highly likely. Someone who doesn’t like having people in his space, that’s a definite.

The laptop screen casts shadows across his face as he works, his eyes moving as he reads lines of code I have no idea how to decipher. Everything about him speaks of power and absolute control … except for that irregular tapping of his fingers. It betrays tension even he can’t completely hide.

A car passes outside, its headlights sweeping across the window. Knight’s attention snaps up, tracking the car as it drives through the rundown parking lot. When the engine sound fades, his attention returns to the screen.

I wonder how many years it takes to develop that kind of awareness. How many lessons learned the hard way.

"Stop."

"What?"

“That.” He waves a hand vaguely in my direction. “The analyzing. I’m not a book to be categorized.”

Heat fills my cheeks. “I wasn’t?—”

“Yes, you were.” But there’s something almost amused beneath the irritation in his voice. “Focus on something useful that isn’t my profile. Like what made you such a perfect choice for this game.”

Whatdidmake me perfect? My isolation? My desperation to find Michael? Or something else? Something I don’t understand?

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