Three years later.
“Allen!”
I take a few steps forward in the darkness. I never understood why my friend insisted on living in a home that was more like a cellar than an apartment. “You don’t have to turn into a cliché, Allen,” I told him a hundred times.
Still, my best friend has every cliché you could pin on hackers. Rather asocial, hair rarely washed and long, shapeless t-shirts on his back. That’s Allen. But I love him. He’s a genius, he pulled me out of difficult situations more than once by getting me incredible information.
But he’s my shadow too. Without him, I wouldn’t go so often on risky reporting; he has a gift of piquing my curiosity by calling me in the middle of the night and throwing me something huge that forces me to pack in a second and run to the other side of th
