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CHAPTER FIVE

Knight

Silence became chaos in the span of a single elevator chime.

Now I have an intruder handcuffed in my bathroom, and access codes that shouldn't exist floating around in the world. This is the reason why I don't deal with people. Computers don't just walk into your space uninvited. They don't use security codes they shouldn't have. They just do what they're told, which is more than I can say for the woman currently accessorizing my radiator.

I bend to pick up her fallen laptop, the familiar weight of the Glock at my back a constant reminder that some problems can't be solved with code alone.

Priority one: figure out how the fuck she got in here.

I settle at my workstation with the kind of single-minded focus that makes my brothers mock my control issues. The building entry logs load with mocking efficiency, showing me exactly what I don't want to see—clean access all the way through.

No forced entry. No hacking attempts.

Just my systems rolling out the digital fucking welcome mat to someone who shouldn't even know my name, let alone how to get into my fucking building.

My fingers hit the keyboard. Every access code gets changed, every protocol rewritten. The sheer audacity of someone having unauthorized access to my systems sets my teeth on edge. The same cold calculation that keeps me alive in this business now channels into defensive coding. By the time I'm done, getting in here will require divine intervention.

Or Bishop, but he's arguably more difficult to deal with.

I run a security sweep, checking every system, every camera feed, every sensor. If there's another breach waiting to happen, I'll find it. The feeds show nothing but empty halls and locked doors. But that's not good enough. Not anymore. The last people who got past my security died trying to finish what they started. I had to replace three keyboards after that incident, which annoyed me. Blood ruins circuit boards. Does no one understand how hard it is to find the perfect keyboards?

Lines of code scroll past as I dive deeper into my security protocols. If someone planted something in my system, I'll fucking rip it out line by line. The soft hum of cooling fans and the click of keys fill the silence as I tear apart my own security system looking for compromises. Each layer gets stripped down, examined, then rebuilt stronger than before.

But there’s nothing to find.

Clean logs. Clean code. Clean access.

That’s the part that pisses me off the most. Someone didn't hack their way in here. They walked in with valid credentials that shouldn't exist outside my own protocols. And that is the kind of breach that means someone out there has information they shouldn't have. The last person who got that close learned why the Chambers family reputation isn't just about Rook's body count.

I initiate a full system reset. If anyone else tries to get in here, I want to know about it before they even have a chance to breathe on my damn walls. The familiar patterns of defensive coding help focus my rage.

Some people meditate. I fortify.

Rook would find this hilarious. His antisocial brother being forced to deal with an actual person in his space. Bishop would probably start another lecture about my lifestyle choices.

Neither of them understand that this is the reason why I choose machines over people. Computers don't lie. They don't manipulate. They don't show up uninvited with security codes they shouldn't fucking have.

The system reset finishes, each layer of security settling back into place like digital fortress walls. Movement draws my attention like a shark to blood, and right now she's in my waters and I’m hungry.

I check the bathroom feed—she hasn't moved.

Smart girl.

I stand, adjusting to the weight of the Glock with the kind of unconscious ease that comes from necessity rather than choice. In my line of work, being just a hacker is a good way to end up dead. The gun is as necessary as my keyboard. Both reliable, and deadly when used right.

The bathroom door opens soundlessly. Well-maintained, like everything in my space, even if its current ‘lived in by squatters’ look suggests otherwise. Light spills across her tear-stained face. Fear radiates off her in waves.

Good . She should be scared. Not because I'll hurt her—I save that for people who actually deserve it, and I don’t know if she comes under that list yet—but because she has no idea what she's stumbled into.

"Who are you?" I keep my voice as cold as my systems. The same tone that makes my brothers joke about my robot mode now serves a darker purpose. "And don't bother lying. You're already in deep enough shit."

She stares up at me, trembling. "I ... Knight invited me. He said he could help me find Michael."

" Knight invited you?" The words come out sharp enough to cut. I shift my weight slightly, letting her see the predator rather than the programmer. Contrary to popular belief, I’m just as deadly as my brothers, I’m simply not as obvious about it. "Try again."

Her eyes dart to my hip, looking for the gun. She reminds me of prey watching a predator closing in.

"Please, I'm telling the truth. Knight told me to come here. He's been helping me?—"

"Wrong answer." I move closer. She shrinks back against the radiator. "Let's try this again. Who are you, and how did you get my codes?"

"I told you!" Tears spill down her cheeks. "Knight sent them tonight. He said he found something about Michael's case?—"

"Michael?" I cut her off, letting ice fill my voice. "Who the fuck is Michael? And why should I care?"

I draw the Glock. The barrel presses against her forehead, cold metal meeting warm skin. She stops breathing, face draining of color.

"Last chance. Why are you here?"

"My brother!" she sobs. "I swear. Michael is my brother. He disappeared. Knight was helping me find him. Please, I swear I'm telling the truth!"

I study her for a moment, keeping the gun steady. Growing up with Bishop taught me how to read people—body language, micro-expressions, the tells that give away lies. She's either the world's best liar or completely delusional. Neither option improves my mood.

"Stay put." I lower the gun but don't holster it. A calculated move. Let her see I'm willing to use it, but also willing to be slightly reasonable. "If you're lying, I'll know soon enough. And if you are, you won't like what happens next."

She slumps against the wall, defeat written in every line of her body. I close the door on her tears, letting darkness swallow her again. The lock clicks.

I reset the internal sensors, adding new parameters. If she so much as twitches wrong in there, I'll know about it. Some people think hackers are just nerds hiding behind screens. They tend to forget that in my world, the ones who can’t handle themselves don't survive long enough to build reputations.

Whatever game she's playing, whatever brought her to my door with valid codes and ridiculous claims about me helping her—I'm going to find out. And then I'm going to track down whoever is responsible for this breach of my security.

It’s time to see what kind of amateur brings a computer into my home and expects to keep their secrets. Between Bishop's lessons in human nature and Rook's education in handling threats, I've learned that information is just another kind of weapon.

And I've always been good with weapons.

Someone is about to learn why people avoid playing games with me.

I don't lose well.

And I never play fair.

After all, I learned from the best.