The room was silent.
No décor, no clock, no external devices — only a single laptop sitting on a metal desk, its lid half-open and its fan whispering faintly in the sterile air.
Dr. Amelia Rhodes sat before it, posture straight, eyes sharp. This wasn't her usual office at Aurora Systems but a controlled space—a digital quarantine for high-risk interactions.
The time on the screen read 9:44 AM.
She adjusted her glasses, double-checked the network isolation protocols, then manually entered the secure link sent by NovaSec. No copy-paste. No stored cookies. Not a single digital breadcrumb.
Her fingers hesitated for a moment before pressing Enter.
A short download appeared at the corner of the screen—no external dependencies, no installer prompts, just a simple file labeled CipherLink.exe.
She opened it.
The interface was crude, minimalist, almost unfinished. But what caught her attention most was the timer on the upper-right corner: Meeting begins in 00:14:57.
Amelia exhaled, leaned back, and folded her arms. "Let's see what kind of ghost I'm dealing with."
The timer ticked down.
When it hit zero, the program bloomed into a video feed—only, the other side wasn't what she expected.
A small animated avatar appeared on her screen. Black hair. A sly grin. Eyes that almost seemed alive.
"Dr. Rhodes," came a calm, modulated voice, neither deep nor sharp, almost synthetic. "Thank you for accepting the call. Shall we begin?"
Amelia blinked once, unimpressed. "You hide behind cartoons now?"
The avatar tilted its head, the grin widening. "I prefer firewalls to faces. Faces get people into trouble."
Amelia let out a short breath. "Cute. Let's skip the theatrics, Mr. NovaSec. You said you wanted to talk terms."
"Straight to business. I like that."
The avatar leaned forward slightly, elbows on a floating digital cube. "There are fifteen vulnerabilities left undisclosed. Their range includes your enterprise cloud layers, mobile integration networks, and certain internal management dashboards. A few of them are what you'd call... catastrophic."
Her pulse skipped. But her expression didn't. "So you're holding Aurora's most sensitive weak points for ransom."
"Not ransom," he corrected smoothly. "Fair trade. You pay for the knowledge that keeps your empire from crumbling. Think of it as... security insurance."
Amelia crossed her arms. "Then list your price."
"Three tiers," he said simply. "Minor flaws: one hundred thousand each. Mid-tier breaches: two hundred fifty thousand. Critical failures: one million apiece. Altogether, five point seven million dollars."
The number hung in the air like static.
"Five point seven," she repeated slowly. "That's a bold ask."
The avatar gave a small, lazy shrug. "Call it generous. I'm offering you a way to prevent a meltdown that could cost you billions—and headlines you really don't want."
He leaned closer, his tone softening but never losing that quiet control. "You know I'm right."
Amelia didn't respond. She hated that he was right.
Her team had already confirmed the first few vulnerabilities from the earlier report, and the findings had been disastrous. Each one of them represented an open door to data theft, leaks, or service outages.
"What's the breakdown?" she asked finally.
"Seven low. Four medium. Four critical."
Her jaw tightened. Four critical.
That number alone could make their stockholders panic if it ever surfaced.
Amelia sat forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "And how do I know these aren't already in someone else's hands?"
The avatar gave a small laugh. "You don't. But if I wanted chaos, you'd already know my name."
She didn't like his confidence—but she respected it. He was calm, methodical, and far too calculated to be an ordinary hacker chasing cash.
"What's your endgame, NovaSec?" she asked. "This isn't just about money."
"Of course it isn't," he said. "Money's a side effect. What I want is access—to work with people who actually understand the value of what I build."
"So, partnership?"
"Let's not label it yet. Call it... a potential collaboration."
Amelia rubbed her temples. "You understand I can't authorize this kind of payment on my own."
"Obviously." His tone was polite, almost amused. "You have twenty-four hours to bring it to your executives. After that, my offer expires. Not because I'll leak anything—but because the value of this data changes every day it remains unpatched."
Her eyes narrowed. "That sounds a lot like a threat."
"Think of it as a deadline," he replied, the chibi avatar giving a mock bow. "Even good deals come with one."
Amelia stared at the screen, her reflection faintly visible in the glow. She wanted to hate this man—this faceless prodigy who had exposed the flaws in her fortress—but deep down, a small part of her admired his nerve.
She finally sighed. "Fine. You'll have your answer by tomorrow."
"Perfect."
The avatar hopped off its cube, dusting invisible lint from its sleeves. "Before I go, just so you know—this meeting deletes itself completely once I disconnect."
"And if I recorded it?" she asked, half testing him.
The avatar chuckled, eyes narrowing into cheerful crescents. "Then I'd know exactly where to start patching next time."
The feed cut instantly.
The program vanished from her desktop as if it had never existed, leaving only a faint hum from the laptop's fan.
Dr. Amelia Rhodes sat there in silence, staring at the blank screen.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "Who the hell are you, NovaSec?"