Page 29 of Ruin My Life
Honestly, the NYPD shouldreallyconsider updating their firewalls.
The files confirm what I suspected: priors for theft, assault, possession. Minor stuff, all things considered—especially for someone with known gang affiliations.
What’s more suspicious is what’smissing.
A gap.
A six-month void in his records.
Two and a half years ago, right after emptying the bank account where he’d cashed his dirty Songbird cheques for years… he vanished.
Off the grid. No transactions. No paper trail.
Then suddenly—he reappears.
New accounts. A building deed. Renovation permits.
Andvoilà—his empire is born.
Since then? His record is squeaky clean.
Too clean.
From everything I’ve gathered, the Songbirds don’t exactly hand out retirement packages. They’d rather put a bullet in your head than let you walk away.
So how the hell didDamon Kingmanage to not only leave, but reinvent himself into some vigilante prince?
I dig deeper.
Into the places where real truths live. Where cowards and criminals go to whisper in code, confident their screens protect them. The anonymous forums.
Turns out, he has another name there.
The Coyote.
Best known predator to songbirds.
No one dares say why. But the fear in their silence says enough. Whatever he did to earn that name, it was enough to scare a gang into ghosting an entire borough.
According to the whispers, the Coyote prowls the streets of Kings, and any Songbird stupid enough to trespass is asking for a closed casket.
Interesting.
Once I’ve scraped every corner of the internet, I move on to the real test—his private network.
It’s the kind of job I usually savour. A challenge. A puzzle. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’ll be tougher than most.
After all, security is his business. If anyone should be unbreakable, it’s the King himself.
But security is a lot like a house. Everyone builds strong walls. Locks the doors. Adds cameras, spotlights, motion sensors.
And yet… someone always leaves a window cracked open.
Damon King is no exception.
I find the gap in his system easily. A vulnerability in an auxiliary server—probably something he outsourced without double-checking. One tap, and I’m inside.
From there, it’s routine: hash the data, scatter it through encrypted channels, recompile on my end.
