Page 95 of Filthy Little Fix

Dmitry points with his chin to a small bathroom near the door. "Go wash your face."

Without a word, I go.

My own image in the mirror stares back at me: sunken eyes, stained shirt, dried blood on my skin. I haven't slept in too long. It's really starting to affect me.

I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face. The water running down the sink is pink. I wash my hands, and the crimson dissolves, disappearing down the drain. The feeling doesn't go away.

"Donya."

I see Dmitry appearing at the door through the mirror. He's no longer on the phone with our sister.

"We have an alert from Atlantic City. It's a strange anomaly. The IT team can't explain it."

He extends a tablet screen to me as I dry my hands. An idiocy. It's even offensive to think that, in the midst of all this, Svetlana finds it a priority to inform us about a goddamn technical error. I glance at the screen.

ALERT:Anomalous payment activity. Three (3) low-value ($1,000) jackpots triggered in a 90-second sequence in sector 4.

I almost laugh in contempt.That'sit? Forthree thousand dollars?I bite my tongue not to send him to hell. I keep reading out of reflex.

Affected machines:

ID 778 - Siberian Storm

ID 781 - Ace's Ant

ID 783 - Lucky Loot

My first reaction is contempt.Stupid names. What's the relevance of this to a security alert? Svetlana is losing focus, drowning in useless data while I'm getting my hands dirty for them.

I almost push the tablet back to Dmitry, but something holds me. An annoying detail.

The repetition.

Siberian Storm. Ace's Ant. Lucky Loot. All with a single initial.

What the hell is this?

The word Dmitry used: anomaly. Strange.

It's... almost theatrical. And there's only one person I know who turns chaos into theater. Who communicates through riddles and contempt.

Nyx.

I stare at the letters again. He knows I'm not a technician. The message is something even an animal like me can see. The pattern.

S.S. A.A. L.L.

The obvious.

Siberian Storm. Ace's Ant. Lucky Loot.

S. A. L.

Blind rage finds a target. A name.

Sal.

That son of a bitch Nyx, alive, points his finger directly from the grave they dug for him.