Page 4 of Hunt Me
Sleep comes in patches and bursts, like static.
The smell of burning electronics. Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Run, Iris. Don’t look back.” Mom’s voice on the phone, unnaturally calm. “Remember the protocols.” Headlights cutting through rain. The sound of tires squealing. Two government-issue sedans are blocking the road. Not an accident. Never an accident.
I jolt awake, gasping, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets damp with sweat. The digital clock reads 6:17 AM. Less than an hour of actual sleep.
My hands shake as I reach for the glass of water by my bed. The sleeping pills always do this—trap me with the memoriesI spend my waking hours outrunning. Some nights, the nightmares are worse than others. Tonight was... manageable.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to erase the lingering images. This is why I don’t sleep. This is why I work until exhaustion overpowers fear.
I should shower. Eat something. Maybe try meditation like Dr. Warner keeps suggesting. Instead, I reach for my tablet.
The screen illuminates my face as I pull up the Ivanov systems. My pulse quickens—not from fear this time, but anticipation. There’s something intoxicating about this dance, even if I hate admitting it.
Alexi’s patch job glows on my screen like a neon sign. He’s sealed the breach I left, but his work is rushed. Sloppy even. I can see three different entry points he missed, each one begging to be exploited.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
The smart move would be to strike now, while he’s confident in his fix. Slip through those gaps and plant something deeper. Something he won’t find for weeks.
But where’s the fun in that?
I set the tablet on my nightstand and stretch, feeling vertebrae pop. The thing about Alexi Ivanov is that he’s never really been challenged. MIT dropout. Digital prodigy.
He needs to believe he’s winning. Needs to think his patch is holding.
Because when I do breach again—and I will—the devastation will be so much sweeter.
I pull up his code instead, studying his patterns like a predator learning prey behavior. He’s getting faster with his responses, more creative with his traps. There’s an elegance to his architecture that most criminals lack. If he weren’t an Ivanov, if his family hadn’t orchestrated my parents’ deaths through their government connections, I might respect him.
The thought sends acid through my veins.
No. This isn’t admiration. It’s reconnaissance.
I screenshot his patch job and save it to my encrypted drives. Evidence of his overconfidence. Proof that even the great Alexi Ivanov makes mistakes when he thinks he’s untouchable.
The apartment is silent except for Maya’s soft snoring from her room. Normal people are still asleep at this hour. Normal people don’t wage digital wars before breakfast.
I close the tablet and force myself to stand. Coffee first. Then maybe I’ll let him enjoy his perceived victory for another day or two.
After all, the best hunters know when to strike.
3
ALEXI
Isettle into my usual corner table at the MIT café; laptop already open before my ass hits the chair. Back to the wall. Full view of exits. It’s the same spot I’ve claimed every Tuesday and Thursday for six months now.
Old habits. Or maybe just paranoia that’s kept me alive this long.
The barista doesn’t even ask my order anymore—double espresso, black, no sugar. She knows better than to add that oat milk bullshit the other trust fund kids request. I’m here for caffeine, not Instagram aesthetics.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, reviewing the Phantom’s last breach attempt. Three days of silence since my patch. Three days of wondering if she’s finally given up or just regrouping.
The espresso arrives. I don’t look up.
Code scrolls across my screen—beautiful, perfect, impenetrable. Or at least it should be. I’ve reinforced every vulnerability, sealed every crack. The Phantom should be completely locked out.
So why does my gut keep twisting?
