"Someone is logging in," he says, typing faster now, sweat beading on his forehead. "But they aren't using the external portal. They are bypassing the firewall entirely."
"How? I secured the mainframe myself."
"They found a door we didn't close," Ivan mutters, scanning the code cascading down his screen. "Wait. This isn't a new breach. This is old code. Ancient."
He hits a key and points to a string of text flashing red on the bottom monitor.
ACCESS PROTOCOL: FOUNDER_ROOT_01
"What is that?" I ask.
"It's a Legacy Root Key," Ivan says, his face pale. "It’s a hardcoded backdoor built into the original server architecture twenty years ago. It bypasses all modern security protocols. It’s designed for total administrative override."
I stare at the screen. "Who has that key?"
Ivan turns to look at me. "It’s not a digital key, Boss. It’s a passphrase. A manual code."
"Who knows it?"
"Only the people who built the company," Ivan says. "It would have been set up by the original owner to monitor the system without being tracked."
My blood runs cold.
"Arthur," I whisper.
"It has to be," Ivan confirms. "Or Helena. Those are the only two people alive who would know the Founder's Key."
"Helena is sitting right there," I point at the screen. "She isn’t typing anything."
"Then it's Arthur," Ivan says. "Someone just manually entered Arthur Blackwood’s private override code from a remote terminal. That is the only way they could get past my firewall without triggering a lockdown."
The realization hits me like a punch.
They didn't hack us. Arthur opened the door.
"Source?" I demand.
"Tracing..." Ivan trails, typing. "It’s bouncing through a proxy. Finding the origin now. Got it! It’s coming from a server node in Little Italy. The Moretti private network."
"Block it."
"I can't," Ivan mutters, swearing under his breath. "The Founder's Key grants absolute authority. It overrides my kill switch. I can't stop the message."
On the security feed screen, a window pops up on Helena’s desktop.
It’s a simple, black chat box. The cursor blinks.
SENDER: DAD
The air leaves the room.
"Read it," I command.
Ivan enhances the image. The text appears letter by letter, stark white against the black background.
DAD: Midnight. North Gate. I have a team. Security will be blind for 120 seconds. Run to the gray van. I’m coming for you, sweetheart. - Dad.
Helena’s reaction plays out on the camera feed. She stops breathing. The receiver of the landline slides from her hand and clatters onto the desk. She stares at the message, her eyes widening with a desperate, heartbreaking hope.
