For two full days after the initial suspect list was finalized, Connor did not leave the hotel suite. He sat at a terminal, his connection to the global internet a seamless extension of his own consciousness. He was not merely browsing; he was hunting. His target was Takada Kyosuke, a man who lived not in the physical world, but in the ethereal one of code and data. To catch a ghost in the machine, one must first learn to speak its language.
Under the alias "C. Keyes," a name already gaining traction in elite cybersecurity circles, Connor published a piece of analysis on a recent, highly complex hack of a Swiss banking consortium. His article was a work of art, a brilliant and devastatingly elegant deconstruction of the breach that went far beyond what any official report had released. He not only explained how it was done, but he detailed three more efficient, more elegant methods the hackers could have used. He laid a trap of pure intellect, baiting it with a display of genius he knew a man like Takada could not ignore.
As predicted, an encrypted message arrived the next day. It was from Takada Kyosuke. He had read the article. He was impressed. He agreed to an interview for what "C. Keyes" had pitched as a follow-up piece on the vulnerabilities of state-sponsored digital infrastructure.
They met in a minimalist coffee shop in Ginza, a place that smelled of roasted beans and ozone from the dozens of laptops humming within. Takada Kyosuke was exactly as his profile suggested: young, sharp, dressed in clothes that were casually expensive, and radiating an aura of supreme, unshakable confidence. He was a digital predator in his natural habitat, and he looked at Connor with the amused curiosity of a lion observing a particularly bold gazelle.
"Mr. Keyes," Takada began, forgoing any real pleasantries. "Your analysis was… impressive. Almost as impressive as my own would have been, had I been inclined to publish it."
Connor offered a polite, synthetic smile. "I'm glad it met with your approval, Mr. Takada. Your reputation precedes you. You designed the security architecture for the NPA's new servers, did you not? A formidable task."
Takada's ego was stroked. He leaned back, taking a sip of his black coffee. "It's the most secure network in Asia. A closed-loop, quantum-encrypted fortress. It's practically a black hole for data; information can go in, but nothing comes out."
For a while, Connor played the part of the journalist, asking intelligent questions about firewalls and encryption protocols. He let Takada lecture, letting the man's pride swell. Then, he made his move.
"It is a brilliant design," Connor said, placing his tablet on the table. "But I was running a simulation on a similar architectural model, purely as a thought experiment. I believe I found a hypothetical vulnerability."
Takada laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "A hypothetical vulnerability in a hypothetical model. I'm sure you did. Let me guess, a brute-force attack on the quantum key?"
"No," Connor said, his voice perfectly level. "A cascading buffer overflow, triggered by a specifically malformed data packet sent to a tertiary diagnostic port. Most systems would purge the packet, but if the system's administrator is rerouting even a small amount of server space for an external, non-secure purpose—say, hosting a university research project—it creates a momentary handshake protocol that can be exploited."
Takada's smug expression faltered. He stared at Connor. "That's… theoretical. It's a one-in-a-billion chance. The timing, the specific conditions—it could never be replicated."
"Couldn't it?" Connor asked. His fingers danced across the tablet's screen. A simulated network, a perfect digital replica of the architecture they were discussing, appeared. Lines of code scrolled past at an impossible speed. "The handshake protocol lasts for 0.7 seconds. My analysis indicates a skilled operator would need to send the attack vector within a 0.2-second window."
With a final tap, a red line of code breached the simulated firewall on the screen. A window opened: ROOT ACCESS GRANTED.
The colour drained from Takada Kyosuke's face. His supreme confidence, the bedrock of his entire personality, shattered. He was not looking at a journalist. He was looking at a ghost, a user with a level of skill so far beyond his own that it might as well have been magic. The hunter had become the prey.
"Who… who are you?" Takada whispered, his eyes locked on the tablet.
"I'm someone who understands the system," Connor replied calmly, closing the simulation. "And I need to know if you've seen anything anomalous on the real NPA network. Any backdoor pings. Any unusual data allocation. Anything at all."
Takada was a changed man. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a fearful, grudging respect. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Anomalous? No. My system is perfect. What you just did… it's impossible on the real network because I personally monitor all high-level protocols." He hesitated, his professional pride warring with his fear. "The only 'anomaly,' if you can call it that, is a standing annoyance. A ridiculous amount of server space on a sub-network is partitioned off for a civilian pipeline. It's a direct feed for Chief Yagami's son, for his university coursework. High-bandwidth, low-security. I've filed three reports stating it's a potential security risk, a blatant disregard for protocol, but the Chief insists. He says his son is a genius who needs the resources."
Connor's LED, hidden beneath the synthetic skin of his temple, cycled yellow. His expression remained placid, but inside his mind, the connection was made. It was not a confession. It was not proof. But it was a pathway. A digital thread, leading directly from the heart of the Japanese police to the bedroom of a seventeen-year-old boy.
He had found the ghost's footprints in the wires.