Page 28 of Hunt Me
Connection Refused.
Number Disconnected.
I’ve been trying to breach Iris’s systems for six hours. Six. Fucking. Hours.
Nothing works.
She’s burned every entry point I had. Changed every password. Scrambled her digital signature so thoroughly I can’t even find her shadow on the dark web.
The Phantom is a ghost again.
My coffee’s gone cold. Energy drink cans litter the floor around my chair. Code scrolls across monitors in endless loops, searching for cracks that don’t exist.
She’s good. Better than good.
And I hate it.
No—I’m obsessed with it.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, trying another approach. Maybe if I route through the MIT servers, use the old backdoor I installed freshman year?—
Access Denied.
“Fucking hell.” I slam my fist on the desk. The monitors shake.
This isn’t how it works. I don’t get locked out. I’m the one who does the locking. The hunting. The controlling.
But Iris has cut me off completely. No webcam feed. No phone tap. No way inside her beautiful, paranoid systems.
She’s terrified. I saw it in her eyes right before she shut down—that moment of clarity when she realized what we’d done. What she’d let me see.
The fear turns me on more than it should.
I pull up the file I created on her. Home address. Third-floor apartment. One roommate—Maya Chen, graphic designer, no criminal record.
My brothers handle problems face-to-face. Break bones, fire bullets, leave bodies in the harbor.
I’ve never needed to. Why get my hands dirty when I can destroy someone from behind a screen?
But Iris has forced a different play.
I grab my jacket, checking the Glock holstered at my side out of habit. Not that I plan to use it. This isn’t that kind of visit.
This is reconnaissance. Old-school surveillance.
The thought makes me smile despite my frustration.
She’s made me adapt. Changed the rules of engagement.
No one’s done that before.
The drive to Commonwealth Avenue takes twenty minutes. Normally, I’d have surveillance up before making a move like this, but Iris has stripped that option away.
So here I am. Parked across the street from 1247 Commonwealth Avenue in a blacked-out Tesla, staring at a brick building like some stalker.
Which, technically, I suppose I am.
Unit 4 B. Third floor. Corner apartment with a fire escape—I memorized the building schematics hours ago. Her windows face the street, curtains drawn tight.
