Dusk settled thick over San Francisco, neon signs flickering to life through the mist rising from the bay.
Maya walked briskly.
1890 16th Street. Laundromat. Locker 17. Code: 0423.
D.C.'s message looped in her mind. She hadn't replied, but the address had pulled her in like a magnet.
Her servers, Tommy's photos—everything left of her old life was there. She had no choice but to go, even if every instinct screamed it was a trap.
16th Street buzzed with life—taco joints, artisan cocktail bars, vintage boutiques. The pedestrians, glued to their phones or deep in conversation, paid her no attention.
She blended in, hood up, the violet streaks in her hair hidden under black fabric. She passed a food truck, keeping her head down, avoiding the surveillance cameras she knew were everywhere.
The laundromat stood at the corner of an alley—faded facade, flickering sign: [Wash & Go]. The windows were fogged and filthy, plastered with sticker ads and flyers.
Maya paused thirty feet away, hidden in the shadow of a bus shelter. Two men smoked near the entrance, their outlines vague in the dim light. Customers or lookouts? She wasn't going to check.
She circled around via a narrow side alley, boots dodging puddles of stale water. A rusted service door, half-hidden behind a dumpster, caught her eye. She pulled out her Swiss knife and got to work on the basic lock—it gave way in less than thirty seconds. The click was satisfying. She slipped inside.
The laundromat smelled of mildew, cheap detergent, and hot metal. Machines whirred steadily.
A few customers were present: an older woman folding towels, a young man asleep in a plastic chair, earbuds in.
Maya spotted the lockers at the back, lined up against a water-stained wall. Number 17 sat top left, its digital lock blinking softly.
She stepped forward.
0423.
She keyed in the code. The lock clicked open. Inside, a black duffel bag—worn but intact. She pulled it out, unzipped it, and felt a wave of relief laced with pain.
Her external hard drives, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap. A box of family photos, including one of Tommy at MIT—his smile frozen in time.
Why save her stuff? Was Damien Cross really on her side—or was this part of a more elegant trap?
She zipped the bag, slung it over her shoulder, and slipped out through the service door unnoticed.
Outside, night had fallen. The alley was dark, lit only by a flickering streetlamp. Maya shifted the weight on her shoulder and headed toward Folsom Street—the address Cipher_X had sent her.
She didn't have the $2,500 he demanded, but she'd find a way.
On the way, she stopped at another cybercafé, seedier than the last—its mix of cold cigarette smoke and disinfectant clinging to everything. She rented a terminal for thirty minutes, plugged in her USB drive, and connected to the darknet. A new message from Cipher_X was waiting.
[Cipher_X]: Payment not received. You've got until midnight, Phoenix. After that, the address is burned.
Maya cursed under her breath. She launched a script she'd written months ago.
It wasn't ethical, but ethics didn't pay debts. Within ten minutes, she'd siphoned 0.03 BTC from an abandoned wallet—just enough to cover part of the payment.
[Phoenix_Rising]: Sent 1500. The rest comes tomorrow. Don't screw me over.
The reply came instantly.
[Cipher_X]: You've got nerve. Fine. But if the rest doesn't show, you're dead.
Maya disconnected, pulled out her USB, and left.
Folsom Street was a twenty-minute walk. She skipped the subway—too many cameras, too much risk. She took back alleys, dodging main roads. At every corner, she checked window reflections and shadows behind her. Nothing—so far.
When she reached 1423 Folsom Street, it was nearly 10 p.m. The building was a block of crumbling concrete—typical of gentrifying neighborhoods. Bright graffiti covered the walls. Trash-scented air lingered.
She punched in the code—7391—and the door creaked open. The stairwell was narrow, dim, and stained. She climbed to the fourth floor, found apartment 4B, and lifted the doormat. A rusty key, just as promised.
Inside, the apartment was spartan: a bare mattress in one corner, a wobbly table, a single dangling bulb. Maya dropped her duffel and swept every corner, flashlight in hand, checking outlets and baseboards.
Nothing. Cipher_X had kept his word.
She sat on the mattress, pulled out a hard drive. No laptop, but she knew the contents of her servers by heart. Somewhere in that data was the corrupted file Tommy had hidden.
Phoenix_2023.
The file Damien said held the truth about her brother's death. She had to find a way to decrypt it.
Her stomach growled, a harsh reminder she hadn't eaten since that morning's Red Bull. She rummaged in her pockets, found a crumpled five-dollar bill, and decided to risk a quick supply run. But before leaving, she rigged a simple trap: a nylon thread across the door, attached to a stack of plastic plates from the cabinet. If someone entered, she'd know.
Outside, the air was crisp. Folsom Street was mostly empty. Maya found a 24/7 mini-mart two blocks down. She bought instant noodles and bottled water, always watching her surroundings. On her way back, she noticed a car parked across the street—a black Tesla with tinted windows. She slowed, crouched to fake tying her boot, and observed.
Engine off. A shadow sat inside, unmoving.
She took a back alley, circling the building. The stairwell was empty. Her trap was untouched. No one had entered.
She sat back down on the mattress, cold noodles in a plastic bowl. Each bite was mechanical—her mind was elsewhere.
Tommy. Nexus Corp. Damien Cross. The Phoenix_2023 file.
She pulled out the burner phone and sent a message.
After a while, she powered the phone off.
She packed her gear, checked her taser and Swiss knife.
"Alright," she muttered. "From now on, I set the rules."