Page 10 of Fang

The same twelve files appear on my screen, organized in a folder structure so basic it’s almost insulting. Spreadsheets containing what appear to be shipping manifests. A few PDF documents with supplier information. Nothing that seems worth the elaborate security theater Mina orchestrated at the auction.

I run a deeper scan, pushing past the obvious file structure into the raw data. My eyes track the scrolling hexadecimal output, looking for patterns or anomalies that might indicate steganographic concealment—data hidden within other data, invisible to standard file systems.

Nothing.

I try a different approach, opening a terminal window and typing a series of commands to check for alternative data streams, hidden partitions, or encrypted volumes that might be nested within the visible filesystem.

Still nothing.

“Come on,” I growl, frustration building behind my eyes like storm pressure. “There has to be something here.”

I launch a suite of specialized forensic tools I’ve modified myself to detect the kinds of tricks only the most paranoid hackers would use. The programs chew through the flash drive’s contents, analyzing every byte, comparing hash values, checking timestamps for inconsistencies.

The results roll in, one after another, each delivering the same maddening conclusion: the drive contains exactly what it appears to contain. Twelve unremarkable files with no hidden data.

I lean back in my chair, running both hands through my hair until it stands up in chaotic spikes. This doesn’t make sense. Why would Mina risk her life for this? Why would she claimit contained everything we need if it’s just basic supply-chain documentation?

Unless… unless she lied. Unless this whole thing is exactly what Vapor fears—a trap designed to get her inside our defenses.

The thought sends a chill through me despite the warmth of the electronics-packed room. I’ve been so focused on the technical puzzle that I may have missed the human one.

I’m about to eject the drive and storm back to the Quiet Room to confront Mina when a notification pops up in the corner of my main monitor. A small red box with white text, innocuous enough that most people would dismiss it without a second thought.

But I’m not most people, and the message it contains makes my blood freeze in my veins.

INTRUSION DETECTED - LEVEL 3 FIREWALL BREACH

“What the hell?” I lean forward, fingers already flying across the keyboard to pull up the security dashboard. Level 3 is our outermost defensive perimeter, designed to keep casual snoopers and script kiddies at bay. Nothing that should cause serious concern—except another notification follows immediately, then another.

LEVEL 2 FIREWALL BREACH

ATTEMPTING TO ISOLATE INTRUSION VECTOR

My posture changes instantly, muscles tensing as I pull myself closer to the desk. This isn’t a random attack or automated scan. This is something targeted and sophisticated, moving through our defenses with disturbing speed.

I pull up the traffic analyzer, watching in real-time as packets flood our network from multiple IP addresses. The pattern is too coordinated to be random, too elegant to be brute force. Someone is probing for weaknesses with the precision of a surgeon, testing each potential entry point with carefully craftedpackets designed to exploit vulnerabilities that shouldn’t even exist in my system.

“Oh, you want to play?” I mutter, fingers flying across the keyboard as I initiate countermeasures. “Let’s play.”

I route the incoming traffic through a honeypot—a decoy system designed to look vulnerable while actually isolating the attacker from our real network. For a moment, the flood of intrusion attempts redirects, and I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction.

It lasts exactly three seconds before new warnings explode across my screens.

LEVEL 1 FIREWALL BREACH

ADMINISTRATIVE ACCESS COMPROMISED

DATABASE INTEGRITY FAILURE

“No, no, no!” The words escape through clenched teeth as I watch the attacker slice through my defenses like they don’t exist. This shouldn’t be possible. I built these systems myself, hardened them against exactly this kind of attack.

Red warning messages cascade across all six monitors now, a digital waterfall of failure that makes my stomach clench with a nauseating mix of fear and professional outrage. The club’s secure databases—containing everything from member information to operational details to financial records—are being systematically accessed and copied.

My fingers blur across the keyboard, trying to isolate critical systems, change access credentials, anything to slow the bleeding of data. But the attacker is always one step ahead, anticipating my defensive moves with uncanny precision.

It’s like they know the system. Like they know me.

A new message appears, centered on my main screen in blinking red letters that seem to pulse in time with my racing heartbeat:

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