The room was empty except for a single table, a chair, and a new laptop sitting at its center. The faint buzz of the ceiling light was the only sound that accompanied Amelia Grant as she stared at the screen.
She had requested this machine herself—fresh from the box, no network history, no installed software. It was a clean slate, her only line of defense against the mysterious figure who called himself CipherWorks.
Even with all her caution, Amelia knew it might not matter. Whoever this person was, they had already proven themselves capable of slipping through barriers her own division could not even detect.
At exactly nine forty five, she switched on the laptop, opened the browser, and manually typed in the address provided earlier. She refused to click any links directly. Paranoia was her friend.
The download began instantly—a small encrypted file that finished in seconds. Amelia hesitated for a heartbeat, then ran it in the isolated sandbox she had set up.
A gray window appeared, its interface plain and unfinished. It displayed a single line of text.
Session begins in fifteen minutes.
She exhaled quietly and waited.
When the timer reached zero, the screen flickered and transformed into a secure video window.
"Ms Grant," a modulated voice greeted her smoothly. "Thank you for joining. Shall we proceed?"
Amelia's brows rose slightly. The figure on the screen was not a person but a digital avatar—a silver mask floating over a shifting field of static, voice distorted just enough to block recognition.
"So this is how you present yourself," she said dryly. "Creative."
The mask tilted faintly, as though amused. "It keeps things professional. You are here for information, not identity."
"Fair enough," Amelia replied, folding her arms. "Let's get to it."
The mask pulsed faintly as the voice continued.
"The remaining vulnerabilities affect Atlas cloud services, internal authentication systems, and two of your proprietary development frameworks. If they were weaponized, your core infrastructure could collapse within hours."
Her expression hardened. "What are you asking for?"
"Payment based on severity, rarity, and fix complexity," CipherWorks replied evenly. "Each flaw has been documented, verified, and categorized. The price reflects the cost of the disaster you avoided."
"Be specific."
There was a pause. The mask brightened slightly before the voice resumed.
"For the minor flaws, one hundred thousand each. For the advanced breaches, two hundred fifty thousand. For the critical ones, one million per discovery."
He paused deliberately before adding, "The total value stands at five point six million."
Amelia tapped the edge of the table slowly. "You are asking for quite a sum."
"I am offering peace of mind," CipherWorks replied softly. "And you already know how expensive that is in your line of work."
She hated how calm he sounded. Hated even more how right he was.
"How many of each?" she asked.
"Six minor, five major, four critical," he answered without hesitation.
That number alone made her stomach tighten. Four critical breaches—each one capable of costing the company far more than he was asking for.
She leaned forward slightly. "No one else knows about these, do they?"
"I work alone," he said. "If I wanted exposure, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Silence stretched between them. The static mask watched her quietly as she considered the weight of the situation.
Atlas was not just a company—it was the backbone of several global networks. If even one of these exploits went public, it would trigger chaos across multiple industries.
Finally, Amelia spoke. "This amount requires board authorization. I cannot approve it on my own."
"I expected as much," CipherWorks said. "You have twenty four hours. After that, I archive the data and withdraw the offer."
"Withdraw?" she asked sharply. "Does that mean you'll sell it elsewhere?"
The static shimmered faintly as if in amusement. "It means the price may change. Information, like opportunity, does not wait forever."
Amelia's jaw tightened. She hated being backed into a corner, especially by someone she could not even see.
"Fine," she said finally. "You will have your answer within the day."
The masked avatar inclined its head slightly. "Then our business is concluded for now. And do not bother attempting to trace this call. The moment I disconnect, every trace of this session dissolves from your system."
"And if I tried to record it externally?" she asked, her tone almost challenging.
"Then I would know which feed to shut down first," came the quiet reply.
Before she could respond, the window went dark. The software vanished without a trace.
Amelia stared at the blank screen for several seconds, her reflection faintly visible against it.
She exhaled slowly and muttered to herself, "Who in the world are you?"