The Hunt Begins 2
787 Words
Wednesday, Morning.
Place: Unknown
The room smelled like cold pizza and burnt circuits.
Three computer screens glowed in the dark, throwing green light over a table buried under chaos; half-eaten noodles, a slice of pepperoni gone stiff, two Coke cans, empty chip packets, and a coffee mug that hadn’t been washed in days.
Dirty shirts and jeans were piled in one corner like they’d grown there.
A man sat in front of the screens, early twenties, messy hair, tired eyes, a stubble that had forgotten the last time it met a razor.
He tapped fast, eyes jumping between lines of code flying down the screen.
Firewalls flared and died like match flames.
Security systems blinked red, then black.
He smirked. “Too easy.”
Another firewall cracked.
He leaned back, grabbed the pizza slice, took a bite. “Dinner’s solved,” he muttered. “Who needs balance in life when you’ve got good bandwidth?”
His phone buzzed, the old black one, the one that only rang when it mattered.
No name on the screen. Just a number.
He wiped his hand on his shirt and answered.
“Talk.”
A voice came through, low and steady. “You still do quiet jobs?”
“Always,” he said. “Depends on the noise.”
The voice hesitated. Then, “Targets: MLA Arunava Sen. His son, Ashmit. Payment, usual route. No trace. No leaks.”
He raised an eyebrow, spinning in his chair.
“Sen, huh? Big name. Lotta friends in uniform.”
“Not your concern,” the voice said flatly. “You’re just opening doors.”
“Payment first.”
“Half now. Half after confirmation.”
“Fair.”
The line went dead.
He set it down, cracked his knuckles, and turned back to the screen.
Now it was work time.
He opened a fresh terminal, code flowing like water.
“Let’s see, MLA Arunava Sen,” he muttered, typing. “Government firewall… ministry archives… confidential zone.”
The first layer broke in seconds.
The second took longer, a small challenge. He liked that.
As he waited for the next encryption key, he thought about dinner again. “Maybe noodles later,” he said to himself. “Or order momo? Eh.”
Beep.
The third firewall fell apart.
He started digging deeper, tracing schedules, financial transfers, private servers.
A list popped up, security detail rotation, private mansion address, travel log, Ashmit Sen.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Daddy’s boy got a weekend party.”
He kept going, opening silent paths through servers like tunnels through a wall.
Every keystroke left no footprint. No log. No echo.
His code was poetry, ruthless and clean.
Then a new window flashed.
Incoming trace detected.
He smiled. “Cute.”
Two clicks. Trace blocked. Counter-route activated.
The threat vanished.
A beep from his side monitor; payment received. Half, just like promised.
He checked the origin, offshore. Untraceable. Professional.
He leaned back, stretched, cracked his neck. “Alright, mystery man. You pay well.”
He decided to dig a little, curiosity biting at the edges of his calm.
He opened a side console and started tracing the phone call’s path.
Hops, proxies, dead ends, all normal.
Then he hit the final line; Public Booth, Sector 7, Kolkata.
He frowned. “Sector 7? You serious?”
He zoomed in on the area, no cameras, broken lamps, an abandoned street corner near a tea stall.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Guy knows how to disappear.”
He tried one more deep trace. Nothing.
He shut the window, rubbed his eyes. “Alright. You win this round.”
He turned back to the main terminal.
Lines of code blinked green. Access granted. Data tunnel established. Objective locked.
He hit ENTER.
Somewhere far away, a defense server flickered, a firewall blinked red, then fell silent.
He leaned back in his chair and watched the screens cool down.
“Job done,” he said softly. “And dinner’s cold.”
He typed a final message through an encrypted relay;
Task complete. Awaiting confirmation.
A reply came seconds later;
Acknowledged. Payment soon.
Raven smiled.
He shut off the monitors one by one. The glow died slowly, leaving the room in darkness again.
He sat for a while, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Then he grabbed the cold pizza box, took one last bite, and muttered,
“Big names. Big money. Same end.”
He stood, stretched, and tossed the empty box toward the bin, missed.
The last monitor flicked off, leaving only the blinking light of the modem.
The man they’d never see had just opened a digital door that would change lives.
- Writer
