The phone unlocked. And then... nothing. Just a smug little grid of apps staring back at me like it was proud of me for failing. Messages? Locked. Photos? Locked. Email? Locked. i********:? Password required. Jack Glasgow had a second layer of security on every app like he was storing state secrets or the nuclear launch codes or maybe just a bunch of d**k pics labeled “classified.” I sat there blinking like an i***t while the shower ran in the other room and the steam fogged up the mirror I was slowly mentally drowning in.
What the f**k kind of man double-locks his Pinterest? What was he hiding... spy cams and spreadsheets or a softcore addiction to silk chokers and baking reels? I clicked again. Denied. Clicked again. Denied. One wrong move and I’d probably get booted from the Glasgow em
