Ryan slammed his fist into the desk.
The impact rattled the monitors, but his eyes never left the screen. Lines of code twisted and reshaped themselves faster than he could follow. Something was inside his system now quiet, precise, already past the outer layers he trusted.
"Damn it…"
He pulled up network access logs. One connection blinked, unstable, then vanished.
Before he could reroute, his phone rang.
He answered without checking the caller ID.
"They can't get into the Unity Bank servers," a voice said. Low. Urgent. "The access route is closed."
Ryan leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. "How long?"
"Doesn't matter. We're exposed."
Ryan's fingers paused above the keyboard.
Then his radio crackled to life.
"Ryan. This is confirmed. Real FBI units have been tipped. They're moving toward the bank now."
His breath hitched.
"Get them out," Ryan said immediately. "Now. Police are coming."
The line went dead.
Inside Unity Bank, Agent Austin lifted his head.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
A short hand signal was enough.
The men in FBI jackets shifted instantly. Laptops closed. Cables disconnected. No panic, no rush—just trained movement.
"We're pulling out," Austin said quietly. "Now."
They turned and headed toward the exits.
In the manager's office, the phone finally connected.
The manager straightened in his chair, relief washing over his face.
"Sir," he said quickly, "we were locked out of our servers earlier, but your FBI agents arrived and—"
The voice on the other end cut him off.
"What FBI agents?"
The manager froze.
"I— you sent them. Counter-intelligence."
"No one hacked our servers," the voice snapped. "And I sure as hell didn't send FBI to your branch. What is going on there?"
The manager opened his mouth to answer.
The door creaked.
An employee stepped inside, her face pale.
"Sir—"
The manager looked up.
A man stood behind her.
A gun pressed against the side of her head.
"Drop the phone," the man said calmly. "Step away from the desk."
The manager's heart slammed against his ribs.
Slowly, he placed the phone down.
As he stood, muscle memory kicked in—training drilled into him years ago. His hand brushed the underside of the desk.
He pressed the panic button.
Nothing happened.
The man with the gun tilted his head slightly.
"You shouldn't have done that."
The shot was loud.
Too loud for a closed office.
The manager's body dropped, collapsing forward like his legs forgot their purpose.
Blood spread across the carpet.
The phone lay where it fell, the line still open.
Across the ocean, Ryan stared at his screen.
His system was still being accessed.
But not everywhere.
Only one section.
Ethan Iver.
His personal files remained untouched. No logs altered. No backups wiped.
Only Ethan's data was being copied.
Ryan exhaled slowly.
"Who the hell are you…"
He tried to block the connection.
Too late.
The transfer completed.
The link vanished.
Back in the city, the men in fake FBI jackets exited the bank through a side door.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
They were already gone.
Across the street, Ethan stood in the ICT shop, holding a new phone box.
The middle-aged man behind the counter gave a tired smile.
"That should work fine. Laptop too."
Ethan nodded. "Thanks. For earlier… for helping me."
The man shook his head. "I didn't stop them. I just slowed things down."
Ethan didn't press further.
He paid, took the bag, and stepped outside.
Unity Bank stood across the street, glass reflecting sunlight. People walked in and out. Everything looked normal.
A black van was parked nearby.
Ethan barely glanced at it.
It didn't feel important.
He called a taxi and waited.
When it arrived, he got in and headed back to the hotel where his family was staying.
He leaned back in the seat, phone in his hand, already thinking about dinner and tomorrow's meeting.
He didn't notice the police cars turning onto the street behind him.
He didn't hear the sirens.
And he didn't know that because his account couldn't be accessed digitally…
Someone had decided to take it physically.