Page 2 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
The target system blossoms across my screen, and I suck in a sharp breath. The encryption is a labyrinth, dense and intricate, layers folding over one another like steel shutters. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.
My fingers twitch over the keys. Challenge accepted.
Hours melt away. The outside world disappears. There’s only the dance of code, the constant push and pull as I prod, coax, and pry at defenses meant to be impenetrable. My energy drink stash dwindles, empty cans littering the desk. My eyes burn, but I don’t blink.
Lines of numbers cascade in waves, a language only I can read. Each failed attempt sharpens my focus, each near-success lights a fire in my chest. I slip deeper, pressing where the armor looks weakest, listening for the faintest crack.
Then… there.
A seam, narrow and delicate, hidden in the noise. My breath catches as I dig in, pressure precise, every keystroke steady. The system resists, thrashing against my intrusion, but it’s too late. The firewall crumbles, walls collapsing in a digital avalanche.
Data floods my screens in a torrent of light and soundless noise, scrolling faster than I can process. Strings of numbers, fragments of files, encrypted records unspooling into my waiting hands.
Got you.
The rush is addictive, a high that leaves my pulse hammering. I package the requested files, cloak them in my ownencryption, and deliver them back through the secure channel. Clean. Efficient. Untraceable.
I lean back, chair creaking beneath me, the taste of victory sharp on my tongue.
One job. One night. That’s all.
I tell myself it’s done, that I’ll wake up tomorrow and this will already feel like another job checked off a list. The money will clear, the client will vanish, and I’ll be free to pick my next challenge.
If all goes well, anyway.
Chapter Two - Rostya
The warehouse floor is quiet now, save for the echo of dripping water somewhere in the distance and the dull hum of machinery above.
I stride in from the shadows, my knuckles still streaked with blood, raw skin pulled tight over bone. My suit jacket clings heavy to my shoulders, soaked with the stench of iron. I don’t bother to take it off. I want it there, want the weight of it pressing down, reminding me what I’ve done. What I always do.
Violence is ritual. The rhythm of fists against flesh, the breaking of bones, the wet gurgle of men choking on their own blood. It should have left me cleansed, emptied of the poison I carry.
Tonight the air tastes wrong, bitter, as if I’ve drawn blood and still fed nothing. There’s an edge to it, sharp and unseen, like teeth gnashing just beyond the dark.
The muffled thrum of bass leaks through the ceiling from the club upstairs. Men laugh, women dance, liquor flows as though the night isn’t breaking apart beneath us. Their world drowns in pleasure while mine cracks open.
The sterile hum of servers gnaws at my ears, steady, mechanical, reminding me that power doesn’t live only in broken bodies anymore. The metallic tang clings to my skin, settling thick in my throat.
Ivan is waiting at the door. Back straight. Eyes sharp. His hand hovers too close to his gun, twitching like he expects a fight that isn’t there. My presence shouldn’t unnerve him, not after all these years, yet the tension coils between us anyway. He feels it. The shift. The wrongness in the air.
I stop in front of him, and he doesn’t meet my eyes. That alone sets the coil inside me tighter.
“What is it?” The words are flat, stripped down to iron.
He hesitates. I see his jaw work, his throat move. Silence stretches, fraying by the second.
“Say it.”
His voice scrapes raw when it comes. “There’s been… activity. On the servers.”
I narrow my eyes. “Activity.”
“Unusual traffic.” His hand flexes against his thigh, betraying nerves he tries to bury. “More than that. Sir… it’s bad.”
The muscles in my shoulders tighten, but I don’t move fast. I push past him, the door slamming shut behind me, and the office swallows us both.
The servers line the far wall, humming their endless tune, cold light spilling blue across glass and steel. Their glow casts fragments of myself across the room, reflections shattered across every pane. Dozens of pieces of me staring back. None whole.
