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CHAPTER SEVEN

Knight

I had to set aside my investigation for twenty-four hours while I did a job for Bishop. I even forgot I had a woman locked in my bathroom for a while … until Eden went to use it. It was only as she reached for the door that I remembered, but by then it was too late.

Well, maybe forgot is too strong a word, but I set it to one side in favor of getting answers Bishop needed before returning to my own mystery.

Thankfully, Bishop doesn’t believe in demanding to know every detail of the jobs I run, and expects me to be able to handle them the same way he handles his, so I was able to brush him off with bullshit and distractions. But once he leaves, the need for answers returns with a vengeance.

I go back into my workspace, where the laptop, powered down and isolated from any networks, sits in my Faraday box.

How did she get those access codes?

The fall shattered the screen, but the hard drive should be intact. Every breach has a signature. Every intrusion leaves traces.

The bathroom sensors ping—the third micro-movement in the past hour. A shift in position, an attempt to ease the pressure from the cuffs. She's uncomfortable. Every tiny movement she makes tells me that. She might even be scared. Knowing her emotional state matters because fear makes people unpredictable—and unpredictability is dangerous.

Motion is data. Data is truth. And I need to focus. Every distraction, every wasted second is an opening for whoever set this up.

I run my diagnostic tablet over the laptop, checking for unusual power signatures or hidden transmission devices. Basic precautions for unknown hardware. The scan reveals standard components, normal power readings. My shoulders tighten, frustration mounting.

It’s almost disappointingly ordinary.

The hard drive comes out first. I connect it to my isolated testing environment through multiple security protocols. Any malware, any hidden processes, will trigger containment measures. The system runs its first diagnostic. No immediate red flags. No encrypted partitions.

I clone the drive before touching anything. Never work with originals. Never trust what you see. Never assume coincidence. These aren't just rules, they're survival techniques, etched into my bones from every mistake I've learned the hard way.

While the diagnostics are running, I work on taking everything else apart. The wireless card and Bluetooth module detach easily. I document each step, taking photographs of every component.

People think hacking is all lines of code and digital finesse. They forget the hardware, forget that even the smallest component can betray you. A single modified chip, a tiny transmitter. That’s all it takes to compromise an entire system.

Inside reveals consumer-grade mediocrity. Standard RAM. Basic processor. No modifications. No suspicious components. Nothing to explain how she got through my security.

Frustration gnaws at me, a simmering irritation that refuses to be ignored. There has to be something , some hidden crack, some oversight I've yet to see. The absence of answers is almost worse than finding a flaw in the first place.

Another check of the bathroom feed shows her head down. Small tremors register on the motion sensors. The audio feed picks up irregular breathing. Irrelevant data points—or so I try to convince myself. But the doubt persists, an annoying whisper at the edge of my thoughts. What if I'm missing something crucial? Every small tremor, every irregular breath could mean something more. I can't afford to overlook anything.

I drag my attention back to the harddrive. System files first. I trace execution logs, temp files, browser caches. Looking for the tools she must have used to breach my security. Twenty minutes of deep scanning yields nothing. No specialized software. No hacking tools. Not even a fucking password manager. Nope, this girl keeps them stored in her browser. Who doesn’t keep their passwords encrypted, for fuck’s sake?

Her browser history wakes up my curiosity. Missing persons websites, police tip lines, and private investigator services. Scattered social media traces. Thousands of searches.

Email archives expand the pattern. There are messages to police departments, missing persons organizations, private investigators. Each one timestamped, each one documenting a path that seems to go nowhere.

And then I find a folder labeled ‘Knight,’ and my fingers pause on the keyboard.

What the fuck?

Screenshots fill the screen. Message logs. Hundreds of conversations spanning weeks. Late-night exchanges about her brother's case. Links to articles about missing persons. Regular updates on supposed progress.

My name. My security codes. My systems.

But the messages ...

I pull up three screens of logs. A pattern emerges with brutal clarity. Daily contact. Quick responses. Follow-up questions. Personal details. The messages even include cat memes. A flicker of something twisted, darkly humorous, runs through me.

Cat memes .

Of all the absurd ways to try to impersonate me ... they thought this was the kind of shit I waste my time with?

It's almost insulting. Whoever did this clearly has no idea who they're dealing with.

I don't do conversations.

I don’t randomly message strangers after reading their sob stories.

I don't ask questions.

I definitely don't send fucking cat memes.

Someone has been using my name, and not even bothering to imitate my methods.

Why, though? Why use me to talk to this woman?

My identity, my reputation has been turned into a tool for manipulation. She had no preconceptions about me. No way to know these friendly, supportive messages were nothing like reality.

They just needed my name to make her trust them enough to hand over access codes to my building and make her come here.

But why ?

The motion sensors register another shift. A small movement, a sound caught between a breath and a sob. I ignore her, and dive deeper into the message logs.

The timestamps create a pattern. Regular contact. Clearly building trust. Feeding her hope in careful doses. Three weeks of digital manipulation, each message an obviously calculated move, each response a tightening noose, all leading her right to my door. And showing me a truth I can’t ignore anymore.

Someone orchestrated every step. They preyed on her vulnerability, exploited her desperation, and used my identity as the bait. Whoever it is turned her into tools, used her as a piece on a chessboard. Manipulating her with such precision, such fucking arrogance , that it makes my blood boil.

Her brother's case unfolds through scattered files, and I piece together the story.

Michael vanished between Friday night and Monday morning a couple of months ago. When she reported him missing, law enforcement found nothing. No forced entry to his apartment, no signs of struggle. Since his disappearance, there’s been no bank activity, no social media posts.

The silence is damning. It's as if he was plucked from existence, every trace wiped clean. It's a clean disappearance, almost too clean.

The lack of evidence bugs me. My frustration grows as I follow each search to its inevitable dead end. The deeper I go, the more it looks like someone took meticulous care to leave no trace behind. The thought of someone doing this with such precision sets off alarm bells inside my head.

There's no way this is a typical disappearance. Something weird is going on beneath the surface.

After weeks of trying to find him alone, someone reached out ... Just as she was on the verge of giving up, of running out of leads she could follow.

Someone using my name offered help.

The folders named ‘work’ yield nothing remarkable. Library schedules. Event planning documents. The photograph folder contains ordinary moments. Concerts. Friends. Family gatherings. What’s not normal is that none of them are recent. The latest is over two years old, judging by the date stamp.

More data points forming a pattern I don't want to see, don’t want to acknowledge.

The security feed shows her still slumped against the wall. The same position she's been in for hours while I searched for complex intrusions that don't fucking exist.

Someone is not only using my name. They've turned it into a weapon. They took the time to create an entire digital relationship with the girl in my bathroom. Built her trust piece by piece. All to ensure she'd follow their breadcrumbs straight to me.

It doesn’t matter how much I search, I already know the answer about where she got the access codes from. She didn’t steal them.

They were given to her.

Someone somehow obtained access to my security codes, then orchestrated this entire scenario. They knew exactly how I'd react to a stranger who used them and showed up here. They knew I'd see her as a threat. And probably planned for every security measure, every protocol, every fucking response I’d give.

They didn't just breach my security.

They turned me into exactly what they needed me to be.

Which means I’m still fucking missing something, because she’s locked up in the bathroom, and the fucking hard drive is clean. So why is she here?

The bathroom sensors record another micro-movement. Muscles cramping from hours restrained.

Rage burns through my chest. My muscles lock, my jaw clenches until it aches. It's a fire that won't be quenched. Through my fingers. Through every line of fucking code I'm going to use to hunt down whoever is behind whatever game this is.

The pulse of adrenaline sharpens everything. My heartbeat becomes a metronome, counting down the seconds until I make my move. My eyes narrow as I disconnect the hard drive. The detached, analytical focus I’m known for is gone, replaced by something darker, something vengeful.

They want to play games? Well, they just made their first mistake.

I grab the key to the handcuffs.

Someone wanted her here. Wanted her alone with me. Wanted this exact situation.

They think they understand me. Think they know how I’ll respond. But they have no idea what I'm truly capable of.

My resolve hardens, every instinct pushing me to prove them wrong.

I walk to the bathroom, my footsteps echoing off the walls.

Whoever did this knows how to push buttons, how to manipulate digital footprints, but they forgot one crucial thing.

I am not just a system to exploit. I am the one they should fear.

Each door I pass blurs at the edges, a tunnel narrowing on a single target.

Her .

No longer because she’s the threat, but because she’s the fucking bait I snapped up without thought. She’s the key to unraveling whatever twisted game someone is trying to drag me into.

Whatever they’re planning, it’s already begun. And it hinges on her being right here, right now.

The questions pile up like bodies.

Who gained access to my access codes? Who is her brother? What part does he play? Does he play any part? Or was his disappearance simply what made her useful? What's the end game? And what do they want with me?

I pause outside the door. Her sobs are muffled, barely audible through the thick walls, but the sensors don’t lie. Tension courses through me, fierce and unyielding, clawing at my insides like a caged beast.

The lock clicks open. The bathroom air is cold, sterile, and she's there, curled in on herself, eyes red from crying. Vulnerable .

It’s time to play this new game by my rules. Whether they're ready for it or not.

I kneel in front of her, her eyes widening, confusion and fear flickering across her face. I can see the questions there.

Why are you here? What do you want now?

But there’s no time for reassurances. The real enemy is out there, watching, waiting for me to play by their script. And that’s not going to happen.

“Listen carefully.” I keep my voice low. “I believe you. You’re not the enemy. You’re just a pawn. I’m going to make this right.”

Whoever used her to get into my apartment forgot one important thing. And they’re about to find out exactly what happens when you back a Knight into a corner.

And I promise, it won’t be pretty.