Page 2 of Fang

A series of offices line the left wall, their frosted glass doors revealing the shadows of empty furniture. To my right, the corridor opens periodically to show glimpses of the warehouse floor below, where the auction continues its deadly dance.

The room I’m looking for appears around the third corner, marked with a brushed steel sign that reads “Server Control—Authorized Only” in both English and Spanish. The door at the end sits behind three separate security measures, which tells me I’m in the right place.

The first security measure is interesting—a pressure plate built into the floor directly in front of the door. Step on it without the right authorization, and alarms scream loud enough to wake the dead. The plate sits flush with the surrounding floor, but there’s a tell-tale outline where the installation didn’t quite match the original surface.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a piece of gum. After working it between my fingers until it’s pliable enough, I shape it into a small wedge and press it against the plate’s eastern edge. Then comes the magnet, a neodymium disc about the size of a nickel.

The pressure plate operates on a simple principle: weight triggers a circuit that sends a signal to the security system. But if you can create a counterbalancing force at precisely the right angle, you can step on the plate without actually engaging the trigger mechanism. The magnet, positioned correctly against the gum, creates enough magnetic interference to trick the sensor into thinking the plate hasn’t moved.

I step carefully onto the left side of the plate, distributing my weight, and hold my breath. Nothing. No alarms, no flashing lights, no armed guards charging down the corridor. Sometimes the simplest solutions are the most elegant.

The second obstacle is a biometric scanner, its red eye glowing with the patient malevolence of artificial intelligence. I pull a small device from my jacket pocket, something I’ve been calling a pulse override, though the technical name involves too many syllables and not enough poetry. The device looks like a hearing aid crossed with a USB port, and it connects to the scanner’s data stream with a magnetic coupling that would make any computer geek proud.

The scanner’s red light flickers as my device floods its sensors with conflicting signals. Biometric scanners rely on consistent electrical patterns to verify identity, but when youintroduce controlled chaos into the equation… well, let’s just say there’s a way to bypass the system. The light turns green, and I’m over the second hurdle.

The third security measure is just a standard electronic lock, the kind that thinks it’s secure because it uses a six-digit code. I connect my phone to the lock’s data port using a cable that looks like it belongs to a different decade, and let my custom software run through the possible combinations. It takes forty-seven seconds to crack, which is embarrassing for whoever installed it.

The door opens with a whisper, and I step into a different world.

The control room consists of multiple monitors arranged in a semicircle around a central workspace. The screens show scrolling code, network diagrams, and data streams that paint the walls with shifting patterns of light and shadow. The air hums with the quiet energy of serious computing power, punctuated by the occasional click of a mechanical keyboard.

She sits with her back to me, a figure in a dark hoodie with the hood pushed halfway off her head. A long braid of black hair falls down her back like a rope made of midnight, and her fingers move across the keyboard with the fluid precision of a concert pianist.

I watch her work, captivated despite myself. This is real skill, the kind that takes years to develop and natural talent to master. She’s not just coding—she’s conducting a digital symphony, coordinating multiple data streams with the easy confidence of someone who speaks binary as fluently as her native tongue.

The code flowing across her screens has the same elegant structure I remember from our previous encounters. Clean, efficient, beautiful in its simplicity. She’s building somethingcomplex, weaving together databases and security protocols with the delicate touch of a master craftsman.

I take a step closer, trying to get a better view of her work, and that’s when she freezes. Her fingers stop moving across the keyboard, her shoulders tense slightly, and she tilts her head in a way that suggests she heard me.

Without turning around, she speaks with a slight accent that turns consonants into music: “You gonna stand there breathing like a serial killer, or are you gonna say something?”

Chapter 2: Fang

The question hangs in the air between us like a challenge, and I find myself smiling despite the circumstances. I had prepared several possible opening lines during my journey through the warehouse, each one calculated to establish dominance. Instead, I hear myself saying, “I had a line prepared, but yours was better.”

She turns in her chair with the slow, deliberate movement of someone who’s never been surprised by anything in her life. The monitor glow illuminates her features, which are sharp enough to cut glass. Her high cheekbones, a straight nose, and dark eyes hold the kind of beauty that makes men do stupid things. She’s younger than I expected, maybe mid-twenties, yet she radiates the type of intelligence that doesn’t announce itself, but leaves lingering whispers in your mind long after she’s gone.

What strikes me most is her complete lack of fear. No startled expression, no defensive posture, no reaching for a weapon. She simply looks at me with the calm assessment of someone evaluating a mildly interesting puzzle, and I realize that in a building full of the most violent and deadly people in Texas, she might be the most dangerous of all. She’s the type of calamity you don’t see coming until it’s too late.

“Fang? That’s what they call you, right?” she asks sweetly.

“You know who I am?” I narrow my gaze. How much does she know about me and what I do? If she knows my club name, she must know I’m with Underground Vengeance.

“Mina,” she says, extending her hand. “Though I suspect you already know that.”

“Loba,” I reply, deliberately ignoring the offered handshake.

Her eyes narrow slightly, and for the first time, I see a crack in her composed façade. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It suits you. Lone wolf, hunting in a digital forest, picking off the weak and unwary.” I step closer, noting how she doesn’t retreat. “Very poetic for a cartel hacker.”

She laughs, a sound like silver bells wrapped in barbed wire. “Cartel hacker? Is that what you think I am?” Her gaze travels from my polished shoes to my glasses, and her expression shifts to something that might be pity. “That suit doesn’t fit you, by the way. The shoulders are too wide, and the fabric screams ‘bought in desperation at a department store.’”

Heat rises in my cheeks, which irritates me more than her accuracy. “My fashion choices aren’t the issue here.”

“No?” She spins her chair in a slow circle, whipping her head around so she never breaks eye contact. “Then what is the issue, exactly? You sneak into a cartel warehouse, bypass a state-of-the-art security system, and sneak into my workspace to… what? Critique my coding technique?”

“You’ve been ghosting my systems for weeks. Wiping data, leaving little love notes in my directories. I want to know why.”

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