I was losing. I didn’t know how to lose.
I typed out a new script, each keystroke sharper than the last. I recited each line aloud under my breath, like a spell, sweat crawling along my scalp despite the chill in my little house. The script built and compiled. I launched it, then shut my eyes tight, bracing for the result.
My chest caved in. I stared at the message for a long time, refusing to blink, as if I could will it into something different.
“Not happening,” I whispered. “No fucking way.”
I snapped the mouse across the screen and brought up the secondary shell, one that even my employers didn’t know about. I opened up the command line and typed in a suicide protocol—erase everything, burn the logs, salt the earth. If I couldn’t have the win, I’d scorch it behind me. That was the rule.
But as I hovered over the Y/N confirmation, my vision blurred and my hands finally shook, violently, as if the muscle memory was betraying me too.
The phone buzzed. Not a call—just a silent notification. I didn’t need to check to know it was another reminder from Greenbriar. Deadline. Payment. Or else. I ignored it.
I tried the sequence again. I made a tiny change, a single character, an off-by-one error so minuscule it was almost invisible. Maybe the difference would get me through. I exhaled through my nose and ran it.
ERROR: Transaction Flagged. Duplicate Routing Detected. Contact Security.
This time, I didn’t scream or punch the table. Instead, I let the air leave me, slow and empty, as if my lungs were made for sighing and nothing else. I glanced around the house—the dead plants on the windowsill. I felt bad about those. Guess I’d be joining them soon.
I was supposed to be smarter than everyone else. That was my thing. Now all I could think about was how cold my sweat had gone, how quiet the house was except for the soft tick of the wall clock, and how I’d run out of ideas. My poor pup. Who would take care of him?
I dragged myself up from the chair and stumbled to the kitchen. I made a sandwich in total silence, hands moving like they were remote-controlled. Deli turkey, a slick of mustard, cheese. I crammed the sandwich into my mouth and chewedwithout tasting. My hand found the corkscrew on the counter and tore it through the cork on another bottle of merlot, dark as an old bruise. I poured Rocket his dinner. It’s not his fault my life was fucked.
“I’m so sorry, little guy. I thought I was doing you a favor by picking you up from that dumpster. I didn’t realize my own life was going to turn into its own dumpster fire. You deserved better than me.” I picked him up and cried into his fur. I gave myself a three-minute pity party. Then I stood back up to get back at it.
Back at the desk, I poured a glass full to the rim, sipped, then drank it down in three quick swallows. My throat burned, but it barely touched the fatigue eating through my skull.
I stared at the error message, daring it to change, but it never did. I tried to imagine Wrecker’s face the moment he’d realized it was me behind the breach. Did he even blink? Or did he just keep typing, faster, relentlessly, until there was nothing left for me to do but give up?
I rolled my head side to side, joints popping. The clock read 5:14 now, and outside the windows the sky had gone that blank, pale gray that meant another day had been thrown in the trash. I finished my sandwich in two more bites and chased it with another glass. My stomach rolled, but I kept swallowing.
I tried again. And again. Each time, the same digital slap to the face.
I wanted to cry some more. Instead, I got up and let Rocket out one last time. When he came back in, I turned off every light in the house, one by one. I left the monitors burning blue, the only thing lighting the room as dusk caved in. I stood for a long time in the center of the living room, staring at nothing, letting the waves of failure crash and break and recede.
When I finally slumped back into my chair, I just stared at my hands, watching the tremors work their way from the pinky up to the knuckles. I’d always believed that if you worked hard enough,you could win any game. But sometimes you just lose, and the only thing left was to face it.
The glass was empty, so I filled it back up. My phone buzzed again, and again, and I shut it off without looking.
The darkness pressed in on all sides. I let it and drank and waited for the next wave.
I peeled myself from the desk and grabbed the half-empty wine bottle around the neck, fingers numb and clumsy. The living room was twilight dark, only the faint spill from the monitors guiding me to the hall. Each step sounded too loud, like the house was listening for weakness.
The bathroom light was surgical, an interrogation bulb that showed every flaw in my face. I set the bottle on the counter and stared at myself: twenty-five, blue-black circles nesting under both eyes, cheekbones sharp from skipped meals, skin pale enough to see capillaries spidering just below the surface. I looked like the kind of woman who didn’t know how to sleep, or maybe just never got the chance.
I took a quick shower, shaved all the areas that hadn’t been lasered, washed, and conditioned my hair. I felt a little better when I’d dried off. The mirror insisted I was older than yesterday, older than ever, and a hell of a lot more tired.
Even though my hair was cut in long layers on top, it was pretty short overall, so it was easy to towel dry. I brushed my teeth mechanically, slow strokes, the taste of old coffee and metallic fear refusing to budge. I spat, watched the foam slide down the drain, then caught myself in the mirror again. I put some lip balm on my lips to help with how cracked they were. That was about as good as it got.
I poured another glass of wine and watched it swirl and settle. The first gulp was huge, a mouthful that left me lightheaded and buzzing. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, then topped off the glass again.
My hands moved with a certain efficiency as I dropped the towel. My thighs looked unfamiliar, marked with faint bruises I didn’t remember getting. I pulled an old, oversized t-shirt from the hook behind the door and yanked it on. It hung past my hips, swallowing the curves that were desperately hanging on. I took the wine and my phone, then padded the few steps to my bed.
I tucked Rocket into his bed in the corner closest to the headboard. He was snoring in minutes. My bed was still unmade from last night. I crawled in, tucked the comforter under my chin, and propped my phone on my chest. I scrolled through reels, half-watching the endless parade of smiling faces, prank videos, girls with perfect eyeliner showing me ten ways to fake confidence. The light from the screen was too bright, but I didn’t look away.
Every few minutes, the anxiety punched through: images of men in leather jackets, of Bronc’s pale stare, of Iron Valor’s brand burned into my skin. I imagined their faces when they found out it was me. I pictured what Wrecker would do if he ever caught me. Maybe he’d just walk away. Maybe he’d tear out my throat. I tried to guess which would hurt more. He’d been a mentor to me when I was young. Of course, I had a massive crush on him. A lonely seventeen-year-old girl and an older man who was more beautiful than he had a right to be. But he spent time with me when he could. We’d meet in the library on the public computers. He taught me about code and how magical it was. It was a language all unto itself. And here I was betraying him with it. Fuck. I was the worst kind of person.
I scrolled faster, thumb cramping, desperate for anything that would drown out the noise in my head. I drained the rest of the wine, felt it punch through my gut and leave a heavy warmth behind.
