Lines in the Code

Chapter 1: First Close Call

The city had its own rhythm at this hour, a peculiar blend of quiet and chaos. The streets weren't bustling, but they weren't empty either. There was movement—a shifting pulse of late-night wanderers, street vendors shutting down for the evening, and the low rumble of subway trains beneath the ground.

Skylar Hayes moved through the urban sprawl like a thread weaving through fabric. His hood was pulled low over his face, his steps measured and deliberate. He didn't glance at the streetlights, didn't pause at intersections. He knew better than to let his gaze linger anywhere for too long.

The weight of his laptop bag hung against his back, a familiar burden that both grounded him and heightened his awareness. It wasn't just a tool of his trade—it was his lifeline. And tonight, it carried more than just equipment.

It carried evidence of his latest hack: the carefully siphoned funds that now sat tucked away in an intermediary account.

Skylar's eyes flicked to his reflection in the glass of a passing storefront. Nothing stood out: just another shadowed figure in the crowd. But the unease gnawed at him, subtle but insistent.

He turned a corner, the street opening into the entrance of a subway station. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, their harsh glow reflecting off the chipped tiles lining the stairwell. The station itself was old, neglected. Graffiti streaked the walls, and the air smelled faintly of metal and damp concrete.

Perfect.

Skylar descended the stairs with purpose, his steps echoing faintly against the tiled walls. This part of the job was always the most nerve-wracking—the retrievals, the moments when he had to leave his digital sanctuary and step into the real world. It was necessary, but it left him exposed.

His eyes swept the platform as he reached the bottom of the stairs. A few people lingered in the dimly lit space: a man dozing on a bench, a young couple waiting for the next train. None of them seemed out of place.

Still, the unease refused to leave him.

Skylar moved toward the row of lockers near the far wall. His steps were quick but controlled, his movements rehearsed. He found Locker 43 easily enough, its dull metal surface smeared with grime.

His hand slipped into his pocket, retrieving the small key taped to the back of an old subway card. The key was cold against his fingers as he slid it into the lock and turned.

The door swung open with a faint creak. Inside was a plain manila envelope, its edges slightly crumpled. Skylar reached for it, his movements precise and practiced. He slipped the envelope into his bag in one fluid motion before shutting the locker and stepping back.

His eyes flicked around the platform again, his instincts on high alert. Nothing had changed. The man on the bench was still asleep. The couple was still talking quietly.

Everything seemed normal.

And yet, the feeling of being watched lingered, sharp and oppressive.

From his vantage point across the street, Detective Xavier Cross watched the entrance to the station with unrelenting focus. He sat in the driver's seat of an unmarked car, its engine idling softly. His hands rested on the steering wheel, his grip firm but steady.

The trail that had led him here had been maddeningly faint—small threads of digital activity he'd painstakingly pieced together over weeks. Ph. S was careful, methodical, but not flawless. This station, this locker—it had to be the drop point.

And now, all he could do was wait.

Xavier's phone buzzed on the dashboard. He glanced at the screen: a message from Harris.