Page 2 of Filthy Little Fix
I leave traces of myself wherever I go. On purpose. Coded messages, hidden files, altered logs. I even leave ASCII art in the code, yet no one has connected the dots to stop me.
Like an old, outdated TLS 1.0 protocol—prehistoric, really.
Security is outdated—TLS 1.0, SSL configured by a sleepy intern, patches ignored for months, passwords stored in text files on the manager's desktop.
This time, I leave another one of my digital art pieces behind and finish the job—a job I don't even know if I should charge for. It's just that ridiculous; a stupid, dangerous hacking gig with no future. Sitting in front of a computer doesn't do it for me anymore. All I really want is a genuine opportunity that makes me feel alive beyond this digital masquerade. Just give me arealjob—something that makes mefeel.
Tomorrow, I'll tend to the fern again. Chad. Nicole.
The cycle.
TWO
DANTE
The smokefrom my Cuban cigar hangs in the air, heavy and sweet, mingling with the smell of blood, sweat, and shit. It's a familiar aroma. A scent I associate with a Tuesday morning. With a progress report.
The son of a bitch on the floor writhes and whimpers. His dark trousers, once immaculate, are now soaked in urine and something else I'd prefer not to identify. His eyes fill with panic, just wet slits. He doesn't see the door, doesn't see the window, doesn't see a way out. He only sees me. Or what hethinkshe sees. A devil, maybe. But I'm just a man. A very, very pissed-off man.
"Say it again, Anton," I say. I stay calm; my men handle the noise. Luca knows precisely where and how to hit to maximize pain without breaking him early. It's a talent. A talent I compensate well. "You don't know anything?"
Anton shakes his head, his face a bizarre grimace of pain and denial. He tries to speak, but Luca just knocked out a tooth. Anton drools blood and spit.
"I swear... I swear to God, Mr. Dante... I don't know shit about this Nyx. I'm just a low-level programmer. They paid meto install some things, some code... but I don't know who this guy is! I really don't know who's responsible for the leak! For the love of God!"
My patience is a taut string. It's about to snap. I bring the cigar to my lips, drawing in a cloud of bitter smoke, to remind myself this isjust a job. The flames in the fireplace crackle in the corner of the room, a cozy sound for a private hell. My estate, a private haven where discretion reigns, holds me. A place where discretion is law and screams don't travel beyond the walls.
"Luca," I call out, without taking my eyes off the worm on the floor.
Luca stops. The iron bar ceases its rise and fall. He's breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his forehead. He's a big man. An ox. And loyal. Loyalty is everything in this business.
"Tell him what happens to liars who cross me—especially when the cost is high. When it compromises the safety of my family."
Luca approaches Anton, who shrinks away. The man is a data broker, selling sensitive client information to whoever paid the most, crossing lines that should never be crossed. I know. I've hired him myself a few times.
When you sell information on the Volkov family, you sign your own death warrant.
"You've been warned, Anton," Luca growls. "We don't like lies. And we'll squeeze you dry until we're sure there's nothing left."
Anton chokes on bloody saliva. Luca, responding swiftly, stops Anton with a hard kick to the shoulder, silencing any further movement. A dry snap. Anton screams, a high-pitched, almost feminine sound. I don't even blink.
"I don't know anything!" he pleads again in a hoarse whisper. "They just... they just asked me to install things! I swear! I don't know who leaked it! I'm just the guy who does the job!"
I close my eyes for a second. This mess gets inside my head. That hacker—Nyx—cost my family dearly before. That hacker... he never left my mind. He has to be working for the Malakovs.
My tech team talks big, but it's not enough. They talk about firewalls, encryption, backdoors. Words. I need a face. A real name, a real address. A bullet.
I open my eyes. My calm is dangerously close to running out. "After years with the Malakovs, you don't know their top hacker, Anton?"
"I... I don't know! I don't know who's behind it all! I just got orders, a few lines of code... I'm not the brain, I'm just the arm!"
I let out a cold laugh. "A useless arm. Is that the best you've got?" I raise my cigar. The tip glows red. "I don't deal with useless arms."
I give Luca a nod. He understands. He raises the iron bar again, and Anton lets out a whimper of despair. I lean forward, watching, analyzing every movement, every contraction of pain in the man's body.
I don't take pleasure in the pain of others. Despite the brutality, I remind myself this is the only language they understand. It's necessary.
The dull, metallic thud of the iron bar meeting bone is familiar.
