Page 39 of Ruin My Life

Seeing him this rattled? It’s new. And not a good sign.

We built this system together. Lee handled the digital security—firewalls, false directories, end-to-end encryption—while I handled the real-world variables. The human threats. The consequences.

We both thought it was impenetrable.

Apparently not.

She didn’t just breach it—she dissected it. Infiltrated every file she wanted, then slipped out without a trace.

The only reason we even caught her was thanks to a failsafe Lee buried in one of the private files. A Trojan—not meant to block intruders, but to follow them. Track them. It stayed dormant during the transfer, invisible even to advanced antivirus, and activated only once she saved the file to her local server.

From there, it took less than an hour for Lee to pinpoint her IP and trace her to an apartment on the boarder between Kings and Queens.

That’s where I sent Monroe and Connor.

But even with her location, we’ve got nothing solid on her. No legal name. No real identification.

Utility bills, apartment lease, burner phone—all registered under the same pseudonym:The Black Rose.

Lee’s still digging. Meanwhile, I’ve been going over every lead tied to the recent string of Songbird deaths. O’Doyle’s breathing down my neck, convinced I’ve got blood on my hands.

And yeah—he’s notentirelywrong to think it.

But not this time.

These deaths started about six months ago—same time The Black Rose moved into her little apartment.

Coincidence?Maybe.

But I don’t believe in coincidences.

And the more I search, the more tangled it gets.

On the forums, people whisper about her like a myth. They say she’s hunting Songbirds. One by one.

And if that’s true… she must have a reason. A vendetta. Or a price on her head.

Either way, I told Monroe and Connor to proceed with caution. And to sedate her if it came to that.

Lee’s fingers suddenly freeze on the keyboard.

“Damn,” he mutters, eyes narrowing as he scrolls through a forum thread.

“What?” I step in closer, my arms braced against the back of his chair.

He tilts the monitor toward me, revealing a post dated six months back—an old, buried request. It’s a simple thread. A trade offer. Information for information. The account is anonymous, signed only with a symbol: a black rose.

“She’s not just killing,” Lee says. “She’s hunting.”

The post describes two masked men, one of them with the signature Songbird wings tattooed across his chest.

“Any idea who it might be?” Lee asks, expanding the image.

I shake my head. “Too many possibilities. That ink’s supposed to mark rank, but half those idiots slap it on for clout. Could be anyone.”

Lee scrolls down. “It’s the only thing she’s ever posted. Like she didn’t exist before six months ago.”

Didn’t exist... or didn’t need to.