Page 14 of Make Them Cry
IP pings.
A stream of messages between Cathedral users referring to River by code name—“the Whale.”
“Jesus,” Ozzy mutters. “They’re hunting her like it’s a game.”
Knight’s voice cuts in, cold and sharp. “Look at this one:‘I watched her fix Biscuit. She thinks no one saw her cry in the bathroom. She’s wrong.’”
My blood turns to ice.
Arrow says nothing. He doesn’t need to. I’m already pulling the list of employees who accessed NVisionAudit in the last month.
Seventeen users.
Onlyfourwith full admin privileges.
Onlytwowho have access to QA toolsandhave been with NovaPlay longer than three years.
I freeze when I see the name.
Mason Reid
The same smug bastard who used to date River back when I first started with the company. The one she doesn’t talk about. The one who likes to whisper shit about her in the break room when he thinks no one’s listening.
Mother fucker doesn’t know, I’m always listening.
“Mason’s dirty,” I say. “We’ve got him on the log download and a matching Cathedral handle—Scripture88.”
Arrow’s already tracing the IP. “Running full packet capture now. We need to confirm he’s still active. If he is, we’ll nail him.”
“I want to go after him now.”
“Not yet,” Knight says. “He may be a pawn. If we move too early, we spook the real admin.”
Ozzy hums. “The real admin being Regent.”
The Cathedral ringleader. The guy none of us have been able to ID. Whoever he is, he’s got layers of encryption, an ego the size of a small country, and apparently, a twisted obsession with River.
“This Psalm88 file?” Render finally chimes in. “It’s curated. It’s not just logs—it’s commentary. He’swatchingher. He’s cataloging reactions. He’s building a psychological profile.”
I grip my keyboard hard enough to crack plastic.
“He wants to break her,” I say.
“No,” Arrow says. “He wants to make hersnap. He wants to turn her into a meme. Something the rest of the trolls can laugh at. That’s what Cathedral does. They turn pain into content.”
Not River.
She’s too brilliant. Too stubborn. Tooherselfto be fed to a mob like that.
I turn toward her empty desk again. The mug she used yesterday is still there. No lipstick stain—she doesn’t wear any—but the handle’s still turned left like always.
“You gonna tell her it’s you?” Ozzy asks.
