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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Knight

The phone is sitting in my Faraday box, dark and silent, taunting me with the secrets I know it must contain. Every instinct I own, honed over years, is screaming that it’s not an innocent device. But proving it is going to require a careful plan. One wrong move could trigger whatever has been built into its system.

My workspace feels different knowing someone else is in my apartment. My eyes shift from the phone to the security feed. Glitch is pacing the guest bedroom in what appears to be an attempt to wear a path through my very expensive flooring. She’s been at it for twenty minutes, probably burning off nervous energy now that she’s had food and rest.

If she was smart, she’d be looking for weaknesses in my security. It’s what I’d be doing if I was trapped somewhere I didn’t want to be. She won’t find any, though. The guest room windows have all the same protections as the rest of my apartment. Not that I’ve ever had guests before, but it looks like having a spare room will make an excellent timeout corner for unexpected intruders.

My attention returns to the phone. I’m not going to get very far just sitting here staring at it. Time to get to work.

The first scan shows me exactly what I expect. The phone’s interior hardware has been modified. Subtle changes. Ones that won’t trigger standard security protocols. It’s been changed in such a way that even someone who knows what they’re looking for might not notice the extra components at first glance. They’re beautifully integrated into the existing architecture.

Someone clearly missed the keep it simple memo when they built this thing.

And that’s just fucking layer one.

Deeper scans reveal modifications I've only seen theoretical papers discuss. It’s the kind of work that makes government contractors salivate and security experts lose sleep over. There are custom chipsets layered into the standard architecture, like fucking Russian nesting dolls of technological nightmares. Each component has been calibrated to mask its true purpose until the exact moment of activation, which is frustrating as fuck.

I isolate subsystems one at a time, documenting each modification that would slip past normal detection. The processor hasn’t just been upgraded. It’s completely custom. It’s the kind of design that shouldn’t exist outside of research labs, yet here it sits in what I’m supposed to believe is a shop-bought phone.

The configuration of the memory makes even less sense. It has multiple redundant systems, each one capable of running independent operations without leaving any trace in the main system logs.

I hate to admit it, but it’s beautiful work. The elegant kind of a solution that comes not just from understanding the technology, but the philosophy behind it.

Movement catches my attention, and my head turns to the security feed just as my glitch finally stops pacing and sinks onto the end of the bed. She rubs at her bandaged wrists. The gauze stands out stark white against her skin, a reminder that I’m the reason she needed medical attention in the first place.

I push that aside. It’s not my fault she broke into my apartment. My reaction to an unexpected intruder was nothing more than fair. I drag my eyes away, and focus on the next layer of phone modifications.

Someone has built in a power system that shouldn’t even be possible with current technology. The battery isn’t just enhanced, it’s been fundamentally redesigned using principles I’ve only seen done by one person before.

A person I’m trying very hard not to think about.

My mining program reveals even more irregularities. Ones that set off warning alarms in my head. Backup systems within backup systems, each one more sophisticated than the last. It’s like looking at a technical interpretation of inception. Layers within layers. Each one carries its own deadly potential … but potential for what?

More movement on the feed distracts me, and I watch as she cautiously opens a door, and discovers the attached bathroom. There are no windows in there, so unless someone has invented teleportation while I wasn’t looking, I don’t expect her to find any way to escape. She disappears inside, and when she emerges a few minutes later, her face is damp. She settles on the bed again, easing off her sneakers, and then stretches out, leaning against the headboard.

Okay, back to the phone.

The hardware modifications are masterful, but it’s the software design that really gets under my skin. Whoever designed this isn’t just good. They’re showing off. Each system is elegantly crafted, carrying signature touches that speak to technical brilliance … and a specific style.

One I recognize. Which is no surprise. I spent years studying it.

I ignore the warning that’s getting louder in my head. It’s impossible. I need to focus on the technical analysis, not chase ghosts.

I have to focus on the threat assessment. On anything except the growing terrifying certainty about who designed this thing.

Glitch is examining window locks now. I’m pretty sure it’s pure survival instinct that has her searching for possible exits. She’s going to be very disappointed when she discovers they won’t open through sheer force of will.

I leave her to it, and go back to the phone, and the nagging feeling of recognition won’t leave me alone. The modifications are too perfect. The integrations are too flawless. This isn’t just professional work, it’s art. The kind of expertise that comes from years of experience.

The kind of work I do.

Because it’s the way I was taught to do it.

I can’t ignore it any longer. There’s no way I can avoid acknowledging that each solution, each modification, carries the signature of the man who taught me everything I know about pushing technology past its limits. The man who showed me how to turn hardware into art and code into poetry.

The man who died in prison nine years ago.

Or so I thought.

The screen flares to life, despite being in a Faraday box. Despite having no power source. Despite every security protocol I’ve designed to prevent it.

Of course it fucking does. The fucking asshole always did have a flair for dramatic timing.

Lines of code scroll across the display, elegant and beautiful. A message crafted in the private language of numbers and commands that he created and taught me when I was just starting out. Back when I thought hacking was about brute force rather than artistry.

Missing me yet, Black Knight?

The words form in strings of binary, a code within a code that only two people in the world understand. The signature that follows isn’t just confirmation. It’s a fucking challenge. Proof of life wrapped up in a bow of technical brilliance.

I freeze, eyes glued to the screen as more lines appear. Each one carries his unique style, his distinctive approach to problem solving that I’d recognize anywhere.

The man who taught me that true hacking was about elegance and subtlety, about understanding systems and changing them, rather than breaking them.

I’m disappointed in you. Keeping a woman locked up in your bathroom? Tut tut. I taught you better than that.

Apparently death isn’t as permanent as the prison system advertises.

It seems that my mentor is alive and well. And he’s just used the glitch in my guest room to prove it.

Because Victor Nash doesn’t do anything without multiple layers of purpose. He taught me that too, right before he got himself arrested. Right before he supposedly died in a prison riot that I’m beginning to think was just another layer of some long-game he never informed me of.

The screen flickers with one final message.

Time to graduate, Black Knight. Let’s see if you’ve learned enough to survive the final exam .

The words fade, leaving me staring at a blank screen that shouldn’t have worked in the first place.

In the bedroom, through my feed, Glitch makes a small sound in her sleep, completely oblivious to the fact she’s just helped deliver the opening move in a chess game where the stakes could literally be life or death. But what piece does she represent, and what the fuck is his end game?

I lean back in my chair, rolling my head from side to side.

Welcome to fucking graduation day. Let the games begin.