Page 3 of Hunt Me
“You said that last time,” Dmitri points out. “Then disappeared for a week.”
I wave dismissively. “Minor details. This is different. This time I’m not trying to build walls—I’m creating a hunter.” I push my barely-touched plate away and stand up. “Sorry to eat and run, but I need to?—”
“Sit.” Nikolai’s command freezes me halfway out of my chair. “Finish your dinner first. The Phantom has waited three weeks; they can wait another thirty minutes.”
I sink back down, recognizing the tone that brooks no argument. “Fine. But I’m taking coffee to go.”
“And actual food,” Sofia adds, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”
“The only thing I’ve lost is sleep and my patience,” I mutter, but I grab my fork anyway. Food is fuel, and I’ll need it for what’s coming next.
2
IRIS
My fingers dance across three keyboards simultaneously as I navigate the Ivanov security system for the fourth time this month. The blue glow of multiple monitors bathes my bedroom in artificial twilight, even as the afternoon sun tries to peek through my blackout curtains.
“Let’s see what you’ve built today, Alexi,” I murmur, sipping cold coffee as I encounter his newest firewall. “Ah, clever boy. Almost caught me with that recursive trap.”
I dismantle his code, leaving my digital signature—just enough to let him know I was here. It’s become our strange ritual. He builds; I break. He patches; I penetrate. There’s elegance in his work that most hackers lack—a distinctive style that feels almost like conversation.
The notification pings as his system detects my intrusion. I picture him now—probably cursing in Russian, those green eyes flashing with frustration. The thought makes me smile.
My phone lights up with a text from a burner number:
Nice work on the Frankfurt accounts. Your father would be proud.
I freeze, my hands hovering above the keyboard. The familiar ache spreads through my chest at the mention of my father. The Ivanovs may not have pulled the trigger, but their connections to certain government agencies made them complicit in what happened to my parents. Their “accident” was anything but.
Alexi is just a bonus—the digital prince of a criminal empire who’s never faced a real challenge. Until me.
“What are you still doing hunched over those computers? It’s Saturday!”
I jump as Maya appears behind me, her curly hair tied up in a messy bun. She’s holding a pizza box like it’s a peace offering.
“Working,” I reply, quickly minimizing windows. “Just finishing up.”
“Bullshit. You’re doing that weird cyber-flirting thing with the Russian hacker again.” She sets the pizza down and spins my chair to face her. “Iris, I love you, but this vendetta is consuming you. One movie. Two hours of human interaction. That’s all I’m asking.”
I glance at my screens, where traces of Alexi’s counterattack are already appearing. He’s getting faster. Almost good enough to catch me. Almost.
“The new Korean horror film is streaming,” Maya tempts, knowing my weakness. “I’ve got pizza, ice cream, and absolutely zero judgment about your questionable life choices.”
I sigh, torn between the digital hunt and the simple pleasure of friendship. The hacker can wait. Maybe.
“Fine. But only because you brought the good pizza.” I start shutting down systems. “And for the record, it’s not flirting. It’s justice with a side of professional curiosity.”
Maya just smiles. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, which, by the way, is something you should try occasionally.”
Maya falls asleep halfway through the movie, her head lolling against the couch cushions. I envy how easily sleep comes to her. For me, it’s always been the enemy—elusive and dangerous.
I check my security systems one more time before heading to my bedroom. Three AM and I’m wide awake, mind racing through encryption protocols and backdoor options. The blue light from my tablet casts shadows across my ceiling as I review Alexi’s latest countermeasures.
After two more hours of work, my eyes burn, but my brain won’t quiet. I reach for the prescription bottle on my nightstand—my reluctant surrender to biology. The pills rattle accusingly. Dr. Warner keeps telling me insomnia is a symptom, not a disease. Easy for him to say when he doesn’t have government agencies monitoring him.
I swallow the medication dry, hating the metallic aftertaste. Hating more what comes after—the vulnerability of unconsciousness.
My weighted blanket feels like armor as I curl beneath it. The medication tugs at the edges of my awareness, dragging me down despite my resistance. Phones off. Tablet locked. Security system armed. Safe as I’ll ever be.
