Page 10 of Taken Off Camera
My fingers return to typing as soon as she walks away. The prepaid debit card I purchased this morning sits beside my laptop, already loaded into the café’s payment system. Fifty dollars, enough for a day’s work and untraceable back to any of my accounts.
I pull up the admin dashboard I built, a custom program that tracks users across my various platforms. Every comment, every tip, every private message gets logged, filtered, and analyzed to hunt for predators.
The list of flagged users appears on my screen. I sort them by threat level using a custom formula thatconsiders factors like message frequency, content aggression, personal information requests, and comment patterns during my shows.
“Let’s find you,” I mutter to myself, scrolling to the newest addition.
StormWatcher88 first appeared in my chat six months ago. Quiet at first, nothing but benign comments and modest tips. Then came the private message requests, which I declined after my filtering system flagged concerning language patterns. Three weeks ago, they began commenting during every stream, using increasingly possessive language, which earned him a block.
Which is when an anonymous user popped up with the same type of comments, escalating even faster behind the screen of anonymity.
The pattern fits.
I click through to the deep search function of my program, letting it comb through public records, social media accounts, and message boards associated with the email address StormWatcher88 used to register on my platform.
The cafe’s overhead speakers crackle with static before switching songs. Someone behind me laughs too loudly. I roll my shoulders, working out the tension, and take a sip of cold coffee.
My program pings with results, and I lean forward. “Gotcha.”
StormWatcher88 is active on seventeen different platforms, including several private forums for Alpha supremacists. The profile photos vary, but the writing style remains consistent. I skim through forum posts where he details fantasies of “claiming” Omegas and forcing them into submission.
My stomach turns when I find a thread titled “Marking What’s Mine.”
A new window pops up as my program finds connections between accounts. StormWatcher88 is also RainMaker22, AlphaDom456, and BoxCollector99.
This last one sends my pulse racing.
“Subtle,” I mutter, clicking through to the BoxCollector99 account.
This one’s on an image-sharing platform with restricted access, but I’ve had backdoor entry for months. The account contains folders of screenshots, all Omega cam performers, all organized by name.
I scroll until I find the one labeledElliotUnleashed.
Inside are hundreds of images captured from my streams. Close-ups of my face during intimate moments. Screenshots where the background of myapartment is visible. Notes on what he thinks are “patterns” in my schedule.
My breath catches when I find a post from three weeks ago: “Sending a personal gift to my favorite Omega. Can’t wait to see his reaction when he realizes I’m watching.”
The date matches the timestamp of when the package would have been sent.
I dig deeper, pulling up IP logs from when BoxCollector99 accessed the site. They vary, as he’s using VPNs, too, but there’s one consistent location where uploads always originate from. A coffee shop in Brickwell, three blocks from the shipping facility where my package was dropped off.
My fingers move faster as I access municipal records and cross-reference with property databases near that coffee shop. A pattern emerges, where one name appears on lease agreements for both an apartment above the coffee shop and a storage unit near the shipping facility.
Travis Thornhill.
The chair creaks as I lean back, considering the name. It means nothing to me, not even a ping of recognition. Not a regular client, nor someone I’ve met.
But that doesn’t matter. I have what I need.
I connect my encrypted drive and transfer the screenshots of his posts, IP logs, property records, and the digital trail connecting StormWatcher88 to the package. The flash drive pulses with a blue light as it copies the data.
While waiting, I access Travis’s work history. Security guard at a mall. Bouncer at a club that closed last year. Currently employed at… My breath catches. A mail processing center in Brickwell.
The pieces click into place. He works at the facility responsible for handling my packages. He would have access to my real PO Box number.
The flash drive beeps, signaling the transfer is complete. I eject it and slip it into my pocket, then launch the program that deletes all browser history, cached files, and temporary data, overwriting the information seven times with random code.
I shut the laptop, disconnect from the café’s Wi-Fi, and slide everything into my backpack. The server glances my way as I stand, but her eyes slide past me, already focused on the next customer.
