Page 18 of The Revenge Game

“Mind if I…?” I gesture to his keyboard.

“Be my guest. Adam said we probably needed to clear our browsing history…”

I hide my smile as I quickly modify the platform’s access setting.

“Try it now.”

Kieran’s jaw drops as his backlog of content starts uploading seamlessly.

“How did you do that so fast?”

“Just a little trick I had up my sleeve,” I reply.

I head back to my desk, my mind still whirring through the marketing department issue. How can I stop the same problem from arising again?

There are no new IT tickets, so I start a scan of the marketings system’s architecture. It’s a mess of tangled integrations like someone tried to solve a Rubik’s Cube by peeling off all the stickers.

I’m halfway through writing them a custom integration layer when an email pings in my inbox.

My breath leaves me.

It’s what I’ve been waiting for.

The sender is Justin Morris, and his email contains detailed illustrations that suggest someone’s been overthinking the “and they lived happily ever after” part of fairytales.

I have to say, the illustrator I hired for this project outdid herself. And she deserved the bonus I paid her for finding ways to make rocky protrusions and mossy beards seem almost…romantic. Her invoice included a line item foremotional recovery time.

I send a furtive look at my colleagues to gauge their reactions, but it’s impossible to tell whether they’ve seen the email. Xander continues his impression of a wilted houseplant draped over his keyboard like he’s photosynthesizing from his screen’s blue light. Meanwhile, Adam clicks away with his mouse with his usual efficiency.

My hands shaking slightly, I turn my attention back to writing the marketing integration. But I can’t help my swirling stomach.

Any moment now, Justin will call our department or appear at our door with his laptop in hand, demanding to know why his email spammed the entire company with illicit troll images.

And while I covered my tracks extremely well with layers of encryption, nerves continue to breed in my stomach.

What happens if I’m found out? I don’t want to be discovered yet. I’ve still got more plans to implement.

But time ticks on, and Justin doesn’t call or show up.

Nothing.

What the hell?

Not seeing the fruit of my labor feels slightly…deflating.

I mean, I need to do this subtly, but there’s something unsatisfying about not getting to observe Justin’s reaction to my pranks. Not seeing him flustered and embarrassed. Not watching that easy charm falter, witnessing him experience what it’s like to be the center of attention for the wrong reasons for once.

Just as I’m about to head to lunch, another email from Justin pops into my inbox.

To: All

From: Justin Morris

Subject: About those anatomically ambitious trolls…

Sorry, everyone, it appears one of our clients decided to play a practical joke and spammed you with an inappropriate email from my account.

I promise that going forward, any emails from me will contain strictly G-rated content about sports equipment—though I suppose those clubs could be considered sports equipment….