Page 56 of What You left in Me

“You lay one more adjective on me, I hang up and find someone with fewer ethics and better results,” I say. “You want the job or not.”

He hesitates long enough for me to consider how long it would take to build my own little factory. Then he says, “No. Sorry. I’m out. Hard pass.”

“How much?” I ask.

“That’s not the…”

“How much,” I repeat.

He names a number that would make a partner at a white-shoe firm press pause. It’s not small.

“Tell you what. I’ll double your ask,” I say, “and throw in a fucking retainer for the quarter. Paid today.”

He stops breathing for a second. When he starts again, it’s a different rhythm. “You’re serious.”

“Do I sound like a man trying to save money.”

Another beat. Then, he groans like a cartoon. “Fuck. Okay. Fine. But guardrails. We don’t touch anyone’s actual accounts. We don’t impersonate live. I produce artifacts. Period. If somebody audits pixels like a hobby, that’s your problem, not mine. We never met. If a cop asks, I’m a figment of your imagination.”

“Good,” I say. “You won’t meet me.”

He exhales. “Christ. Okay. Start talking. Tell me whatever you can about how this guy talks, since you’re asking me to mimic it.”

“His tone is fucking prissy as hell,” I say. “Julian sounds like a man who treats HR policy like a hobby… polishes it, displays it, breaks it when no one’s looking. Careful in public, lazy in private. When he wants something, he pretends it’s already his. He doesn’t gush. He nudges. He thinks he’s charming, lands on condescending. He never gets his hands dirty. He likes the idea of being bad more than the mess. Perfect grammar.”

“God, I know that guy,” the hacker mutters. Keys start clacking. “Who’s the other party?”

“Someone disposable,” I say. “Vanilla name. Nothing that pings her history. Keep her voice eager, a little try-hard. Lots of exclamation points. She’s flattered by access. She’s not the point. He is.”

“Content?”

“Hints, not confessions,” I say. “He alludes, he doesn’t describe. ‘Last time was risky.’ ‘You looked incredible in red.’ ‘Can I steal an hour.’ He pretends to be busy, because busy men believe busyness is virtue. He adds a ‘delete this’ once, not ten times; he wants to feel careful.”

“Right.” More typing. “Time stamps? Frequency?”

“Make it look lived-in,” I say. “A thread that breathes. No manifestos. Flirty crumbs. Sometimes he disappears because he’s ‘in meetings’; sometimes he texts at midnight because he can. Not every day. He’s not a teenager. A few weeks’ worth is enough to imply the rest.”

He clears his throat. “Any words he’d use? Like, key phrases?”

“He’d never write ‘sex.’ He’d write ‘see you’ and mean it. He’d use a nickname he thinks is clever. Something he would never call Ariane.” The name hits my teeth and stays. “Make it wrong on purpose. ‘Sunshine.’ ‘Bunny.’ The cutesier the better. He’s stupid enough to think women actually enjoy that shit.”

“Jesus,” the hacker snorts, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s judging me or Julian. Not that it matters to me, either way. “Okay. Format of deliverables?”

“Screenshots,” I say. “On a platform most people recognize. I don’t care which.” I can hear the lecture trying to climb out of him… resolutions, overlays, metadata… and I cut it off before it grows legs. “Just make it look real.”

“You’re a dream client,” he says, halfway to offended. “Anything else?”

“Once,” I say, “have him say ‘don’t ask questions.’ He thinks that makes him brave.”

A pause that tastes like judgment. “You’re disturbingly good at this.”

“I pay attention.”

“Right.” He huffs out a breath. “Timeline?”

“Two hours.”

He laughs, shocked. “I need at least three, if you want something passable.”