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The three of us lie there, a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin, our breathing gradually slowing in the aftermath. Z’s hand moves to trace lazy patterns across my stomach while Oscar’s fingers replace his. Their tender touch feels all the more profound after the intensity of what came before.

“Still think sleep is overrated?”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "In this case, absolutely." His lips brush my temple, surprisingly gentle. “Though you might actually get some rest now.”

“Fucked into oblivion,” Z adds with characteristic bluntness, though his hand remains gentle as it strokes my hip. “Best way to combat insomnia.”

ALEX

I've staredat this code so long my vision's starting to blur, but Ricky's secrets are worth the headache. The rest of the apartment is quiet. I check the time, 3:42 AM. Great. Another sleepless night to add to my collection.

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, trying to loosen the tension.

My fingers hover above the keyboard, cramping slightly from hours of continuous typing. My desk is littered with emptyenergy drink cans and half-eaten protein bars. The blue light from my screens casts an eerie glow across my workspace.

Ricky's phone sits mockingly beside me, plugged into one of my computers. Locked. Secured. A goddamn fortress of digital protection that shouldn't be this difficult to crack. But whoever set up his security protocols knew what they were doing, and I’d like to meet them.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” I mutter, typing in another algorithm.

Access Deniedflashes mockingly on my screen. I slam my fist down next to my keyboard. If Ricky was still alive, I'd beat the password out of him. Slowly. With a pickaxe and a very tiny hammer. One fucking tink at a time. I’ve cracked secret government military installations with more ease than Ricky’s phone. A cheap cell phone shouldn’t be this hard. Hacking cell phones were what I cut my teeth on, which begs the question, why is this so fucking hard?

I take another swig of lukewarm coffee and try a different approach, my mind racing through possibilities. If I can get into this phone, it might lead us to The Collector, and then to Vesper’s brother.

Access Denied.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, standing up and stretching my legs. I need a new angle. Something personal.

I glance over at my third monitor, where photos of Ricky's corpse cycle through various recognition algorithms. Oz and I were thorough—fingerprints, facial structure, even the partial tattoo on his forearm. The programs have been churning for hours now, cross-referencing every criminal and federal database I've hacked into over the years.

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

“Who the hell are you?”

It doesn't make sense. Everyone leaves digital footprints—especially criminals. Even the careful ones slip up somewhere. But according to every database I've run him through, Richard "Ricky" Novak doesn't exist. No criminal record. No parking tickets. No tax returns. Not even a fucking library card.

There are only two possibilities. Either Ricky was some kind of choir boy who somehow fell into information brokering without ever getting caught, or he's someone else entirely. The first is laughable, the second is more probably. Someone whose identity is protected at levels even my software struggles to penetrate.

Deep cover. Government maybe. Or worse. A plant by The Collector.

A notification pings on my third monitor—the scan has expanded to international databases. Still nothing. It's like Ricky was born yesterday and died today with nothing in between.

“God fucking dammit,” I snarl. The last time my information pool was this dry, I was ten years old trying to hack into my sister’s Barbie laptop. This isn't how I operate. I always find something.

I run a high-level encryption decoder, something I coded myself after a particularly nasty job in Singapore last year. If this doesn't work, I'm going to need to physically dismantle the phone's hardware and extract the data directly—messy, time-consuming, and risky.

“Come on, come on...” I mutter, watching the progress bar crawl forward.

ERROR: SECURITY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.

The phone's screen flashes once, then goes completely dead. A failsafe. Whoever designed this security system just initiated a self-destruct sequence for the data.

“Son of a bitch!” I slam my palm against the desk so hard my monitors shake. I'm about to throw the useless phone acrossthe room when I hear it—a soft click from somewhere in the apartment.

My body freezes, senses immediately on high alert. That wasn't the building settling. That was a door.

My hand moves instinctively to the Glock nestled under my desk, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip as I silently push back my chair. With my free hand, I tap three keys in quick succession, and my main monitor switches to a grid of security feeds I installed throughout the apartment.

I scan each camera view methodically, my breathing shallow and controlled. Front door alarms—still locked, no signs of tampering. Window monitors—still sealed after I went through the apartment and secured them after everyone went to bed. Fire escape—empty. The hallway outside shows nothing but silence.