The hideout smelled like burnt circuits and stale coffee like someone had tried to brew knowledge and ended up with chemical warfare. Neon from cracked windows sliced the room into jagged angles of shadow and light. I stepped over tangled cables, muttering, "Perfect. My Friday night now includes existential dread, electrical hazards, and a potential heart attack delivered via ethernet."
Click… hum… buzz… snap…
The Hacker was already there, hunched over a bank of flickering monitors. Hair sticking out in static spikes, hoodie smelling faintly of burnt solder, eyes darting like tiny predators mapping the room. Fingers flew across a keyboard, a staccato rhythm that matched my pulse.
"Dylan?" he asked without looking up. Voice rough, bitter, as if life had been chewing him and spitting him out since birth.
He finally looked at me. Sharp. Evaluative. A glint of "you might be useful, or you might die" dancing in his gaze. "Ledger?"
I lifted my hand, revealing the edge of the leather. "Oh, this old thing? Just a casual list of names, coordinates, and probable murderers. You know, light reading before bed."
Buzz… faint chatter…
He smirked, the kind that said I've seen worse and I'll probably survive anyway. "You're already hunted. And it's worse than you think."
I leaned against a crate, sarcasm dripping like water off wet pavement. "Fantastic. Hunted. Worse than I think. Exactly how I like my weekends. Do we get snacks with this lesson plan?"
Snap… click… hum…
The monitors flickered, revealing a patchwork of maps, grids, and symbols. "The Syndicate isn't one monster," he muttered. "It's a system. Nodes, veins, digital tentacles everywhere. And they already know you're here."
I blinked at the screen, then muttered under my breath, "Great. My life is now a live-action chess game where all the pawns are trying to kill me, and the board itself is sentient. Perfect."
He noticed my gaze, smirk twitching. "Relax. Not dead yet. But you're in the deep end."
"Relax?" I scoffed. "Sure. Because sarcasm is excellent flotation when you're drowning in a pool of surveillance, betrayal, and questionable moral choices."
Click… hum… scrape…
He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes still scanning every flicker of screen and shadow. "I don't trust you."
"Mutual," I said, shrugging. "You smell like paranoia and caffeine. I like that combination."
Buzz… snap… faint chatter…
He glanced at the ledger. "We work together. For now. I'll show you the veins. How it all connects. But one misstep…"
I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, one misstep and you bite me, or the Syndicate does. Got it. Fair warning noted. Sticker included."
As the screens flickered and wires hummed, I realized something. Even here, in this cluttered hideout, I was being read. Tracked. Mapped. The Syndicate's reach wasn't just in alleys or steel doors. It was digital, omnipresent, and cold. And the ledger was the bait.
Buzz… drip… click…
I rested my hands on the crate, sarcasm a fragile shield over the rising tension. "Perfect. Another ally, another layer of risk, and I'm still standing. Maybe. Probably. Let's see how long this performance lasts before I get written out of the program."
The Hacker's fingers flew again, patterns on screens shifting like a pulse. And somewhere in the hum of the hideout, I realized the city itself was watching and the lesson was just beginning.
Click… hum… buzz…