Chapter 2 Iris
IRIS
My fingers dance across three keyboards simultaneously as I navigate the Ivanov security system for the fourth time this month. The blue glow of multiple monitors bathes my bedroom in artificial twilight, even as the afternoon sun tries to peek through my blackout curtains.
“Let’s see what you’ve built today, Alexi,” I murmur, sipping cold coffee as I encounter his newest firewall. “Ah, clever boy. Almost caught me with that recursive trap.”
I dismantle his code, leaving my digital signature—just enough to let him know I was here. It’s become our strange ritual. He builds; I break. He patches; I penetrate. There’s elegance in his work that most hackers lack—a distinctive style that feels almost like conversation.
The notification pings as his system detects my intrusion. I picture him now—probably cursing in Russian, those green eyes flashing with frustration. The thought makes me smile.
My phone lights up with a text from a burner number:
Nice work on the Frankfurt accounts. Your father would be proud.
I freeze, my hands hovering above the keyboard.
The familiar ache spreads through my chest at the mention of my father.
The Ivanovs may not have pulled the trigger, but their connections to certain government agencies made them complicit in what happened to my parents. Their “accident” was anything but.
Alexi is just a bonus—the digital prince of a criminal empire who’s never faced a real challenge. Until me.
“What are you still doing hunched over those computers? It’s Saturday!”
I jump as Maya appears behind me, her curly hair tied up in a messy bun. She’s holding a pizza box like it’s a peace offering.
“Working,” I reply, quickly minimizing windows. “Just finishing up.”
“Bullshit. You’re doing that weird cyber-flirting thing with the Russian hacker again.” She sets the pizza down and spins my chair to face her. “Iris, I love you, but this vendetta is consuming you. One movie. Two hours of human interaction. That’s all I’m asking.”
I glance at my screens, where traces of Alexi’s counterattack are already appearing. He’s getting faster. Almost good enough to catch me. Almost.
“The new Korean horror film is streaming,” Maya tempts, knowing my weakness. “I’ve got pizza, ice cream, and absolutely zero judgment about your questionable life choices.”
I sigh, torn between the digital hunt and the simple pleasure of friendship. The hacker can wait. Maybe.
“Fine. But only because you brought the good pizza.” I start shutting down systems. “And for the record, it’s not flirting. It’s justice with a side of professional curiosity.”
Maya just smiles. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, which, by the way, is something you should try occasionally.”
Maya falls asleep halfway through the movie, her head lolling against the couch cushions. I envy how easily sleep comes to her. For me, it’s always been the enemy—elusive and dangerous.
I check my security systems one more time before heading to my bedroom. Three AM and I’m wide awake, mind racing through encryption protocols and backdoor options. The blue light from my tablet casts shadows across my ceiling as I review Alexi’s latest countermeasures.
After two more hours of work, my eyes burn, but my brain won’t quiet.
I reach for the prescription bottle on my nightstand—my reluctant surrender to biology.
The pills rattle accusingly. Dr. Warner keeps telling me insomnia is a symptom, not a disease.
Easy for him to say when he doesn’t have government agencies monitoring him.
I swallow the medication dry, hating the metallic aftertaste. Hating more what comes after—the vulnerability of unconsciousness.
My weighted blanket feels like armor as I curl beneath it. The medication tugs at the edges of my awareness, dragging me down despite my resistance. Phones off. Tablet locked. Security system armed. Safe as I’ll ever be.
Sleep comes in patches and bursts, like static.
The smell of burning electronics. Dad’s hand on my shoulder.
“Run, Iris. Don’t look back.” Mom’s voice on the phone, unnaturally calm.
“Remember the protocols.” Headlights cutting through rain.
The sound of tires squealing. Two government-issue sedans are blocking the road. Not an accident. Never an accident.
I jolt awake, gasping, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets damp with sweat. The digital clock reads 6:17 AM. Less than an hour of actual sleep.
My hands shake as I reach for the glass of water by my bed. The sleeping pills always do this—trap me with the memories I spend my waking hours outrunning. Some nights, the nightmares are worse than others. Tonight was... manageable.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to erase the lingering images. This is why I don’t sleep. This is why I work until exhaustion overpowers fear.
I should shower. Eat something. Maybe try meditation like Dr. Warner keeps suggesting. Instead, I reach for my tablet.
The screen illuminates my face as I pull up the Ivanov systems. My pulse quickens—not from fear this time, but anticipation. There’s something intoxicating about this dance, even if I hate admitting it.
Alexi’s patch job glows on my screen like a neon sign. He’s sealed the breach I left, but his work is rushed. Sloppy even. I can see three different entry points he missed, each one begging to be exploited.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
The smart move would be to strike now, while he’s confident in his fix. Slip through those gaps and plant something deeper. Something he won’t find for weeks.
But where’s the fun in that?
I set the tablet on my nightstand and stretch, feeling vertebrae pop. The thing about Alexi Ivanov is that he’s never really been challenged. MIT dropout. Digital prodigy.
He needs to believe he’s winning. Needs to think his patch is holding.
Because when I do breach again—and I will—the devastation will be so much sweeter.
I pull up his code instead, studying his patterns like a predator learning prey behavior.
He’s getting faster with his responses, more creative with his traps.
There’s an elegance to his architecture that most criminals lack.
If he weren’t an Ivanov, if his family hadn’t orchestrated my parents’ deaths through their government connections, I might respect him.
The thought sends acid through my veins.
No. This isn’t admiration. It’s reconnaissance.
I screenshot his patch job and save it to my encrypted drives. Evidence of his overconfidence. Proof that even the great Alexi Ivanov makes mistakes when he thinks he’s untouchable.
The apartment is silent except for Maya’s soft snoring from her room. Normal people are still asleep at this hour. Normal people don’t wage digital wars before breakfast.
I close the tablet and force myself to stand. Coffee first. Then maybe I’ll let him enjoy his perceived victory for another day or two.
After all, the best hunters know when to strike.