Adam sat in his cramped flat, his mind trapped in a relentless feedback loop of fear. His fingers twitched as he scrolled through article after article, each one tightening the spiral. Viktor Romanov. The Romanov cartel. The bodies. The missing people. The list was endless—a web of violence and influence stretching across New York like a steel net.

  Then, suddenly, clarity.

  Decades of programming, breaking into firewalls, and dismantling encrypted security systems had wired his brain for logic. Mikal’s murder was a problem. Viktor's hunt for his killer was a problem. And problems had solutions.

  He couldn’t fight Viktor—not directly. One unintentional murder was enough for a lifetime. But he could stay ahead. Track him. Monitor him. Control the battlefield.

  Adam’s fingers flew over his keyboard. Where did Viktor live? What was his number? Who were his associates? The NYPD would have it all. The police database was filled with notes, phone logs, and flagged vehicles. Even if Viktor changed numbers frequently, triangulating calls from his known addresses would narrow down the possibilities.

  The firewall protecting NYPD records was nothing compared to the fortress that was Stipe Industries' satellite network. The mayor had made sure of that—he despised Ethan Stipe. He had refused to use any of his company’s Cybersecurity software, opting instead for cheap alternatives.

  A flaw. A gap in the armour. A weakness Adam could exploit.

  It took him just three minutes. Then he was inside.

  Police records bloomed across Adam’s screen like a web of nodes of data mapping Viktor’s world. Known residences. A fleet of registered and unregistered vehicles. A dozen burner phones tied to brief, encrypted bursts of activity. Names of associates. Enforcers. Drivers. Cleaners.

  Adam’s fingers moved quickly, pulling up vehicle logs and cross-referencing them with cell tower pings, stitching together a pattern of movement. If he could inject a tracker virus into one of Viktor’s cars—just one—he could follow it silently. Better still, if he could breach one of the phones, piggyback off a signal, and gain access to conversations, location data, and habits.

  But that was only half the job.

  Just as critical was covering his tracks—especially hers. Daisy’s name had to vanish. Every trace of her report—the mugging, the hospital log, the body cam footage—anything showing she or her friend Lilly had ever spoken to the NYPD needed to be wiped clean. The system would forget them.

  But would it be better to delete every report? If he only deleted one, it would stand out. Erasing them all might muddy the waters.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  But then again, what about the man Mikal had made his robot kill? His family would never see justice.

  Even though he had delivered brutal justice—a taste of Mikal’s own medicine. A fatal dose.

  There would be no breadcrumb trail for that psycho, Viktor Romanov, to follow—not to him, not to Daisy, not to his family, not to anyone he loved.

  A noise.

  The front door lock clicked.

  Adam’s breath hitched. Someone was unlocking his door.

  His chair scraped as he leapt to his feet, sending a jolt of pain up his leg. No time to think. He sprinted to the balcony, yanking the sliding door open and slamming it shut behind him. The cold air bit at his skin as he pressed himself against the railing. The morning air was crisp and sour with the scent of damp concrete and distant coffee carts, a low hum of traffic weaving through the cold.

  Four stories up. Below Adam, the thin tops of birch trees swayed in the wind. Could he jump? He wasn’t exactly athletic. He pictured himself crashing through the branches, missing the soft earth, and landing on cold concrete. Not ideal.

  His eyes darted left. A thin ledge. Barely wide enough for his toes, but it ran along to the adjacent flat. He could shimmy across—but one misstep and he’d be a splatter on the pavement.

  Behind him, the glass balcony door slid open.

  The sound sent a shock through his system, causing his grip on the railing to slip. His balance wavered—then a hand closed around his wrist. Cold. Metal.

  “Careful, Mr. Goldberg,” a smooth robotic voice intoned. “You are at risk of personal injury.”

  Adam gasped, twisting to see the dog-walking bot, its sleek chrome head glinting in the sun. A moment later, soft paws padded onto the balcony, followed by a familiar bark.

  Pooch.

  Adam exhaled, slumping against the railing. Of course. The bot had a key.

  He climbed down from the ledge, his limbs trembling as though he’d just sprinted a mile. The robot, oblivious to Adam's near-death experience, continued in its emotionless monotone.

  "Pooch has completed four laps of the park. Engaged in ball retrieval and obedience exercises. Defecated once. Stool quality is consistent with a healthy diet. Waste is disposed of in accordance with city regulations. Would you like a summary of the current pet insurance promotions?”

  “Shut up,” Adam snapped.

  The bot powered down its speaker and turned to leave, Pooch trotting behind. Adam sank into his chair, pressing his hands to his face. He needed to focus.

  For the rest of the night, he combed through police files, hunting for Viktor’s phone numbers, his vehicles, any digital thread he could infect with his viruses.

  If Viktor was looking for him, Adam would make sure he was looking right back.