Page 89 of Reckless: Corruption

“Here,” Cayenne says, pointing to a section of code on the monitor. “See this authentication protocol? It’s cycling through proxy servers to mask the origin point.”

I force myself to focus, analyzing the pattern. “Distributed security. Clever.”

“And a total pain in the ass to crack.” She chews her lower lip, a habit I’ve noted emerges when she’s deeply engaged witha problem. “But there’s always a backdoor. Sterling builds them into everything.”

“Egotistical failsafe,” I agree, finding my analytical footing despite the fever. “He’d never create a system he couldn’t personally override.”

“Exactly.” Her smile turns predatory. “And daddy dearest loves patterns. Numerical sequences that reflect his perception of natural order.”

Working in tandem, we begin probing for Sterling’s personal backdoor. Time blurs, measured only in keystrokes and shared insights. Despite my condition, something about this synchronicity feels right—two beta minds attacking a problem from complementary angles, building solutions together.

“There.” She points to a sequence buried deep in the authentication protocol. “See it?”

I study the pattern, recognition dawning through the fever haze. “Fibonacci sequence, but with a twist. He’s replacing certain values with designation hierarchy markers.”

“Alpha at the top, of course,” she confirms, already typing commands to exploit the weakness. “Omega second, beta a distant third. Typical Sterling thinking.”

“Can you bypass it?”

Her laugh carries notes of genuine amusement. “Can I bypass it? Finn, honey, I’ve been hacking superiority complexes since I was twelve.” Her fingers dance across the keyboard, inserting commands that systematically dismantle Sterling’s precious pattern. “The beauty of arrogance is that it creates blind spots. Sterling thinks his hierarchy is natural law, which makes him predictable.”

As I watch her work, admiration cuts through the fever fog. There’s something mesmerizing about Cayenne in her element—the absolute confidence, the creative problem-solving, the joy she takes in dismantling systems designed to keep her out. It’slike watching a concert pianist, except her instrument is digital and her composition is lines of code that most people would find incomprehensible.

The particular way she interacts with me differs noticeably from her dynamics with the alphas. With Ryker, there’s always that push-pull tension, the alpha authority meeting her rebellious streak. With Jinx, it’s all chaos recognizing chaos. But with me, there’s this intellectual alignment—a meeting of minds that creates its own distinct intimacy. No posturing, no designation dynamics, just two betas operating on the same frequency.

A notification pops up on my secondary monitor—network probe detected, origin point Russia. Sterling’s cybersecurity team has noticed our subtle knocking, faster than I’d calculated.

“We’ve got company,” I warn, already activating our countermeasures. “Eastern European server farm, looks like their primary response team.”

“Let them chase their tails,” Cayenne responds without looking up. “I’ve got false trails running through proxy servers in six countries.”

I track the security response, calculating patterns and predicting moves while Cayenne continues dismantling Sterling’s backdoor. Despite her confidence, tension builds in my chest—if they trace this connection back to us, the entire pack could be compromised.

“Almost there,” she murmurs, fingers flying with renewed purpose. “One more sequence and?—”

The screen flashes green as the final firewall crumbles, granting us access to Sterling’s central database. For a moment, we both freeze, almost disbelieving.

“We’re in.” The wonder in her voice mirrors my own thoughts. This is Sterling’s brain—his most protected digital fortress—and we’ve just walked through the front door.

“Impressive,” I acknowledge, genuine admiration coloring the word. “That was...”

“Brilliant? Amazing? A masterclass in digital infiltration?” She grins, exhaustion and triumph rendering her incandescent.

“All of the above.” The admission comes easily. “Now let’s find what we came for.”

Working in tandem, we begin sifting through the massive database. Sterling’s organization proves as meticulous as the man himself—everything categorized by project, phase, and security clearance. The virus research is scattered across multiple secure servers, protection layers stacked like Russian dolls.

“There.” I point to a directory labeled Project Renaissance. “That’s what they called it in the facility we raided.”

Cayenne initiates the download, routing the data through so many proxy servers that even I have trouble tracking the path. “This is big, Finn. Really big. Look at these research notes.”

The files confirm our worst fears—Sterling’s beta correction initiative has progressed far beyond theory. Clinical trials, implementation strategies, distribution channels—all meticulously documented with the cold precision of someone planning genocide with spreadsheets.

“Jesus,” I whisper, scanning documents that detail survival rates and genetic response patterns. “He’s been planning this for years.”

“Decades,” Cayenne corrects, pulling up a file dated nearly thirty years ago. “Look at this—initial research began before I was even born. My mother...” She pauses, something vulnerable flickering across her face. “She must’ve discovered what he was planning. That’s why she ran.”

A warning flashes on my security monitor—our presence detected, countermeasures initiating. Digital walls close around us, security protocols activating.

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