Page 160 of Pack Frenzy
The bruise throbs once, hard.
Feels like an answer.
I log back in through a side route—one I built when I first started, just in case curiosity ever outweighed common sense. It does. A lot.
The internal network looks the same: clean interface, soft blue light, the illusion of order. But under it? Ghost code. Hidden trails. People like me are supposed to pretend not to notice.
I open the personnel master list, fingers flying. My pulse steadies into the rhythm of keys. There has to be something else.
Another subfolder flashes open—buried deep enough that only someone who knew how the file architectureusedto be laid out would even think to look there.
Inside: one document.
Project Compliance Audit – Subject S.M.
I click.
The file opens halfway, then fragments—text dissolving into static lines. But I catch enough to make my stomach twist.
Behavioral metrics within normal range. Initial pairing deemed compatible. Transfer requested by supervising Alpha due to unanticipated bond intensity. Request approved.
Then the screen blanks out.
Bond intensity.
Transfer requested.
Approved.
Approvedby whom?
I scroll back to the header, but the authorization line’s scrubbed clean. Whoever wiped this didn’t just delete data—they wanted it to look like the decision never existed.
I try the recovery protocol.
No luck.
All I get is a mirror message:Access restricted. Director-level authorization required.
My reflection stares back in the screen—tired eyes, unshaven jaw, bruise half-hidden beneath my collar. I look like I belong here. Maybe that’s the scariest part.
This isn’t just some clerical oversight. Someone wanted Sabrina gone.
If they could erase one Omega this completely, what stops them from erasing another?
Not her. Not Jess.
So I cross-reference Blake Callighan in the database. He comes up as a star-Alpha with no Omega match on the surface. Clean record. Glowing recommendations. Perfect compliance scores.
But when I dig deeper, past the PR and into the archive layer most people don’t know exists, there’s redacted files. Half a dozen of them. All tagged with the same phrase:Incident resolved. No action required.
Shit.
He’s done this before. At least six times before, maybe more. And Nexus let him.
I minimize the window, mask my trail, and start a transfer of my own—encrypted copy, mislabeledExpense Reports Q1.
My cursor hovers over the last open file. It’s all fragmented text and half-erased metadata, but it’s something. Enough.
