Encrypted hearts

ChapterThree

Two hours. Three cups of coffee. My apartment smelled of burnt espresso and sleeplessness, the air thick with the faint hum of electronics. The blinds were drawn against the mid-morning light; only the bluish glow of my laptop lit the living room, flickering across my face like ghost-fire.

The flash drive still blinked red at its USB port, a tiny pulse, as though it were alive. Papa’s voice echoed in my head, “Every lock has a key, Princess. You just have to know where to look.”

I rubbed my eyes. My temples ached from squinting at endless strings of characters. Whoever had built this encryption hadn’t just hidden data; they’d built a labyrinth. And I was only a few turns in.

On my screen, Ini’s face filled a little square of light. She had a scarf tied around her hair and a pencil clenched between her teeth, as if we were still in the Hack Angels’ lab. Her eyes shone with the thrill of the chase.

“You’ve been at it non-stop,” she said. “Your pupils look like binary code. Step away for five minutes, Lena.”

“I can’t,” I muttered, fingers flying. “Look at this, Ini. He buried something deep. This isn’t just old files, this is a vault.”

Ini leaned closer to her camera. “Okay… show me the last layer you cracked.”

I scrolled through the screen. Rows of characters shifted like a waterfall. Here and there, faint tags embedded in the data blinked at me. Not random; deliberate. I magnified one.

Two letters glared back at me. A.C.

I frowned. “Wait… you see that?”

Ini squinted. “Where?”

I highlighted half a dozen fragments. The same two initials threaded through: A.C. A.C. A.C. Like a watermark on everything.

At first, I thought it was a checksum, part of the code. But no, the pattern was intentional. Papa’s hand was all over it.

I whispered, “A.C…”

Ini tilted her head. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know yet. But Papa was careful. If he left a name buried this deep, it matters.”

I leaned back, pressing my palms to my eyes. The letters tugged at my memory. Had I seen them on one of Papa’s old case files? In a headline? I pictured the folder I’d once glimpsed on his desk—blue cover, stamped “Confidential.” In the margin he’d scrawled a note: “AC = key contact?” My heart thudded.

Ini’s voice cut in. “Elena?”

I blinked at her. “Sorry. Just… this name. It’s in my head. Feels familiar.”

“You think it’s a person?”

“Or a company. Or both. Whoever it is, Papa thought they were important enough to tag across every file.” I scrolled again. Financial transfers. Shell corporations. Time stamps from three different continents. All roads pointed back to A.C.

I sipped cold coffee, grimacing. “Ini, this isn’t just code. This is evidence. Papa was on to something huge.”

Onscreen, Ini’s eyebrows shot up. “Lena, if you’re right, someone might—”

A sound cut through the air.

A faint scrape.

Then a soft click.

From the direction of my front door.

I froze. The only sounds until now had been my typing and Ini’s voice. My heart lurched, a single hard knock against my ribs.

“Elena?” Ini’s voice crackled, tiny. “What’s wrong?”

I held up a finger automatically, though she couldn’t see me. My ears strained. Another sound—the slow creak of hinges.

Someone was inside.

The hairs on my arms rose. I muted my mic. The glow from the laptop suddenly felt like a beacon. My apartment, normally my refuge, felt like a trap.

Slowly, silently, I reached for the heaviest object within arm’s reach—Papa’s old brass paperweight. It fit in my palm like a stone. I slid the laptop lid half-closed to dim the light and crouched.

Footsteps. Soft but unmistakable. Not a neighbor. Not the wind. Each step was deliberate.

Ini’s face flickered in the corner of the screen. “Elena, are you okay? Say something.”

I whispered, barely audible. “Someone’s here.”

Another creak. Then silence.

My pulse roared in my ears. The flash drive’s red light blinked like an alarm. Whoever was in the apartment had slipped in like a shadow and was close enough now that I could hear faint breathing—a soft exhalation, then a pause.

I eased to my feet, every movement a prayer. My mind flicked through escape routes: kitchen window? Back stairs? The hallway felt endless.

A shadow shifted at the edge of the doorway. A silhouette, taller than me, shoulders broad. I couldn’t see a face, only a dark outline against the pale hallway light. My fingers tightened on the paperweight.

“Elena…” a low voice murmured. Male. Familiar, yet not. My stomach clenched.

The figure stepped closer, but still didn’t cross the threshold. He seemed to be listening, like a predator scenting prey. Then something glinted at his wrist—a watch? A ring? The faint smell of cologne drifted toward me, stirring a half-memory I couldn’t place.

Ini’s voice was frantic now through my earbuds. “Lena! Get out!”

I backed toward the kitchen, slow, silent, every nerve screaming. My foot hit an empty mug; it tipped, clattering across the floor. The silhouette jerked at the sound, then lunged forward.

I spun and bolted for the back door, the paperweight still in my hand. Behind me, a low curse, a crash—the intruder tripping over the coffee table or knocking something over. I didn’t look back.

The back door stuck as usual; I yanked twice before it gave, spilling me into the narrow stairwell. My bare feet slapped against the cold concrete as I flew down the steps, heart hammering. Above, a door slammed. Footsteps receded.

I crouched in the shadow of the dumpsters, gasping, my phone shaking in my hand. Ini’s voice was still shrieking from the tiny speaker. “Lena! Talk to me!”

“I’m okay,” I whispered hoarsely. “Someone was here.”

“Did you see who?”

“No. Just—” I swallowed. “He said my name. He knew I was here.”

I waited, but no one followed me out. The stairwell was empty, only the smell of rain rising from the concrete. After a minute, I crept back up, every step a tremor. The apartment door hung slightly open. Inside, the laptop still glowed on the desk, but the flash drive was gone.

My knees buckled. I steadied myself on the doorframe, staring at the empty USB port. A fresh wave of cold washed over me. Papa’s secret—vanished.

Except…

On the desk lay a single scrap of paper, folded once. I picked it up with trembling fingers.

No words. Just two letters, scrawled in black ink: A.C.

The flash drive had been taken, but whoever had stolen it had also left a calling card—two letters that were now burnt into my mind like a brand. A.C.

Whoever they were, they’d just made this personal.