The Iron Hand's thermal drone was a persistent, silent predator. Karvin plunged deeper into the sewage culvert, the cold, dirty water reaching his shins. Above him, the high-pitched whine of the drone was rapidly retreating, having registered the dying energy signature of his smashed devices but failing to locate the actual body heat now moving beneath the city. He had bought a few precious seconds of confusion, but the Iron Hand was relentless.
Karvin moved like a man made of shadows and desperation. He followed the labyrinthine tunnels—ancient conduits of concrete and steel—that ran beneath the city's newer infrastructure, navigating by memory of discarded city planning archives he'd once downloaded for fun. He pushed through the stench, ignoring the aching cold that seeped into his bones. He needed to reach the harbor district, the oldest, most chaotic part of the city, where digital surveillance was overwhelmed by sheer human and mechanical clutter.
Four hours later, he emerged near the docks, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin of dirt and cold water. He was unrecognizable: no longer the impeccable, sharp-eyed digital mastermind, but a soaked, filthy vagrant. This anonymity was his only shield. He moved from shadow to shadow, bypassing police checkpoints that were now focused on finding a slick, well-dressed fugitive, not a ghost from the city's depths.
His destination was Pier 17, a forgotten berth known for cheap, unregistered cargo ships heading south. Using the last remnants of his strength, he found the dilapidated vessel described in Scylla's coordinates—a freighter named The Albatross, listing slightly in the murky water, bound for a refueling stop in a small, non-extradition port in the Mediterranean.
He managed to secure passage the only way a ghost could: by offering the weary, indifferent third mate the one thing Karvin possessed that still held value—the emergency beacon he had used to trigger the gas blast. It was a high-grade piece of secure satellite equipment, worth far more than the petty fee, but disposable to Karvin. The transaction was silent, fast, and required no identity.
The next three days were a purgatory of solitude in a tiny, steel-plated storage compartment deep within the ship's hold. The engine's constant low rumble was both maddening and soothing, a white noise that drowned out the shrieking sirens and pounding doors of the Iron Hand's pursuit.
Karvin used the time to rebuild. He was forced back to basics, using the micro-encryptor and the small USB stick with the zero-day exploit as his only tools. He meticulously cleaned himself and his limited gear. He ate the meager rations the crew provided, rationing his mental energy. He had lost his digital kingdom, but he still possessed the most powerful weapon: the knowledge of the Billionaire's weak points.
He thought about the cost of his escape. Jean-Luc, the analyst in Brussels who granted him satellite access, was now silent. Karvin knew the Iron Hand was likely involved, and the guilt was a heavy, dull ache. He had used Jean-Luc's integrity as a consumable resource in the war. The Billionaire was not just a financial criminal; he was a master manipulator of loyalty and trust.
On the third day, Karvin initiated a connection using the ship's ancient, low-bandwidth radio—a channel so analog it was practically invisible to modern surveillance. He used a complex spread-spectrum signal to pull in global headlines.
The news confirmed the Billionaire's ruthless counter-move: his public relations campaign was dominating the airwaves. He was hailed as the "Guardian of Global Resources," protecting rare earth minerals from destabilization fueled by "rogue, state-sponsored cyber-attacks." The narrative had flipped: Karvin was the villain, the chaos agent, and the Billionaire was the necessary, stabilizing force. The Asian sanctions were still in place, but they were now framed as an overreaction by weak governments, not a just punishment. The Billionaire was using the crisis to consolidate his own global legitimacy.
The ship finally docked in a sun-bleached, dusty port on a small Mediterranean island. The safe house was exactly as Scylla had promised: a tiny, anonymous apartment above a spice shop, paid for years in advance and completely stripped of modern technology. No Wi-Fi, no landline, no smart devices—just clean slate walls and a window overlooking the azure sea.
Karvin sat at a bare wooden table. He unwrapped a small, sealed battery pack and his final piece of working equipment: a custom-built, disposable satellite hotspot capable of 15 minutes of high-speed transmission before its battery fused.
He inserted the USB drive containing the zero-day exploit. The code glowed on the screen—a beautiful, elegant vulnerability written by a genius who understood the human flaws in digital architecture.
The target was Lisbon, Portugal—the physical location of the primary server farm for the Billionaire's European power grid billing network. Scylla's message was clear: physical proximity was required to ping the outdated server and launch the exploit.
Karvin closed his eyes, visualizing the network architecture. He wasn't going to cause a blackout. He was going to wipe out the monetary ledger for the Billionaire's entire European operation, crashing the asset's value and ripping apart his claims of being a responsible custodian.
He had no passport, no money, and no official identity. But he had the target, the weapon, and a single, one-way ticket to Lisbon, hidden within the encrypted data on the USB stick.
"Lisbon," he murmured, his voice gritty but firm. "Time to turn off the money."