There was something off about her.
Not just the usual Lorelei Nochnaya stuff — the silence, the precision, the eyes that never gave anything away. That part I'd grown used to. Expected, even. No, this was something deeper.
She was too good.
At everything.
At code. At disappearing. At pretending not to care.
I used to think I had her figured out. She was the girl who made you feel like you were interrupting her world just by existing. Sharp edges, wrapped in silk. But now… now she reminded me of someone else.
Someone who shouldn't even be in the same solar system.
Nyx.
And that pissed me off.
Because Nyx wasn't supposed to be real. Nyx was a myth — a hacker ghost whispered about in the darkest corners of the web. A kid, supposedly. Underage when she — if it was a she — took down everything I built.
That empire wasn't just code. It was mine. Years of work, control, power — gone in one night.
No ransom. No demands. Just a single, encrypted message.
"All warfare is based on deception."
The words had haunted me. Not because of what they said, but because of how they were said. That message wasn't loud. It wasn't boastful. It was surgical. Personal.
I'd heard someone say that sentence before. Out loud. A long time ago.
Lorelei Nochnaya.
It had to be a coincidence.
Right?
But the way she moved through digital space... the way her fingers danced across code like it was poetry...
It wasn't just a coincidence.
It was familiarity.
And familiarity was dangerous.
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We'd made more progress in the Echo Hydra sim than I thought possible. Working with Lorelei was like being tethered to a black hole — she pulled everything in. Noise, logic, silence, tension. I didn't know if I wanted to beat her or break her. Maybe both.
But what surprised me is a possible third option. Something like... fuck that attitude out of her. It wasn't a secret, she's more beautiful than words can describe.
Our interactions were clean on the surface — clipped words, nods, the occasional sharp comment. But underneath, there was static. Something vibrating between the lines.
I fucked several women simply because of one reason - they looked like her. I'm a man of standards, and I don't like any kind of fakes. But I was willing to fuck a fake who looks just a sliver like her. To imagine her underneath me, begging for everything only I can give to her.
In my vocabulary, Loreilei's name is equivalent to Gioia mia. (*My Joy - in Italian*)
I caught her watching me when she thought I wasn't looking. Not often. Not long. Just enough to make me wonder.
Wonder what else she was hiding.
But what she didn't know is that I watch her all the time - I just hide it better.
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That night, I couldn't sleep.
I stared at the ceiling in my penthouse — glass walls, programmable lights, more square footage than I needed — and still felt trapped. Caged by a ghost.
Nyx was back. That message she'd sent earlier this week had been deliberate. Strategic.
"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."
Classic Sun Tzu. Another echo from the past.
Nyx and I used to trade those. No names. No voice. Just quotes.
But now she was quoting me back to myself.
Which meant she remembered.
Which meant… she was watching, too.
And yes, I'm 99% sure it's her, so I'll stick with that pronoun.
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I booted up my system.
No names. No trackers.
My darknet node came alive, wrapped in custom firewalls and hydra-encryption — a layered beast that even Nyx had only broken once.
Only once.
I checked recent traffic logs.
No direct pings. No breach attempts. Just a faint energy signature — like a fingerprint made of heat — brushing the perimeter two nights ago. Not a knock. Just... presence.
I traced the static. It dead-ended in a dead IP. Exactly the kind of trace I used to leave.
Who the hell was she?
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The next morning, I saw Lorelei at the café across from campus.
I never went in there. Too many eyes. Too many people pretend not to notice me.
But she was there, alone at a back table, typing something on her laptop like the world didn't exist.
She didn't see me at first.
So I watched.
Just a little too long.
Then she looked up.
Her eyes met mine. Still. Measured. Unbothered.
I tilted my head, a smile curving slowly.
She didn't return it.
Of course not.
She closed the laptop, picked up her bag, and walked out.
Just like that.
But not before slipping a napkin under her empty cup.
Once she was gone, I went in.
Took the napkin.
Sat in her seat.
Unfolded it.
A single line was scribbled in neat handwriting:
"The quietest ones always strike first."
My skin prickled.
Not fear. Not excitement.
Obsession.
She had to be Nyx.
Didn't she?
Or was she just playing me?
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Later, in the lab, she didn't mention it. Not a word.
We worked in silence.
Code. Sim. Firewalls. Triggers.
Normal. Tense.
Like nothing happened.
But I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The napkin. The handwriting. The message.
I leaned closer during a code review, not even pretending to focus on the screen anymore.
"Tell me something, Nochnaya," I said, low.
"What?" she replied, not looking up.
"Have you ever pretended to be someone you're not?"
She paused. Barely. Just a breath.
"Every day," she said.
Then she clicked "run," and the code executed flawlessly.
I should've walked away. Should've remembered who the real enemy was.But all I could think about was the way her voice dipped when she spoke, the way the light from the screen painted constellations across her cheekbones.
And just like that...She had me under her spell — like one of those flawless codes she wrote, elegant and lethal.