Page 136 of Ruin My Life
Connor’s at the bar, glass in hand—probably soda since he’s on the clock. He’s watching the group of men around the pool table with the kind of intensity that makes your skin prickle.
If I breathe wrong, I’m sure he’ll notice.
I keep my head down and hug the walls, making a slow sweep through the shadows as I head in the direction of the restrooms—conveniently located next to the employee-only entrance to the back room.
I duck through the staff doors and into the familiar concrete hallway. The chill of it creeps down my spine.
This part of the building has no glamour, no disguise. Just steel and cement and silence. It smells faintly like gun oil and industrial cleaner.
I make my way toward the security office. I don’t even need to look for the sign on the door.
I remember the way—from that very first time.
I pull out Damon’s keyring, flicking through them one by one until a heavy silver one fits into the lock with a mechanicalclick.
Got it.
I push the door open just enough to slip inside, half-expecting Lee to still be hunched over his screens, eyesbloodshot and hands typing like the devil’s whispering in his ear.
But the room is empty.
The hum of servers and soft whir of a backup drive fill the silence. I shut the door quietly and lock it from the inside before crossing to the desk.
Lee’s password screen glows in the dark. His setup is as beautiful as I remember it—three high-resolution monitors, a top-of-the-line processor, and enough RAM to give any tech-nut a wet dream.
It’s all hardware I would’ve drooled over six months ago.
Now, it’s just another wall to scale.
I lower myself into his leather chair, flexing my fingers in front of me until my knuckles crack.
Lee’s good.
But I’m better.
I set my duffle down on Lee’s desk and pull out my laptop, plugging it into his setup with fingers that feel colder than they should. I run a basic encryption decoder—something I designed and programmed. I taught myself how to build one back in middle school when I used to hack my way into grade databases and teacher laptops for fun.
Within sixty seconds, I’m in.
Lee’s desktop is cleaner than I expected it to be—at least on the surface. But it doesn’t take long to find the vault beneath the wallpaper. Every folder is locked with multiple passwords and layered encryptions.
I’d be impressed if it weren’t so irritating at this very moment.
He’s smart. He’s been burned before.
By me.
I navigate past the folders on Kings Security intel and private clients. They’re tempting, of course, but not what I’m here for.
Deep within his directory, I find solid gold.
Lee has an entire database—one he frequently updates—on every Songbird member, past and present, as well as anyone that has ever had ties to them.
He even has a file onme.
I click on it, and my stomach tightens.
Photos. Public records. Screenshots and scraps from the deep web.
