20. Maxim
20
MAXIM
T he room is stark and modern, all sleek black furniture and glowing monitors mounted on the walls. Streams of code, maps, and live feeds from surveillance cameras scroll across the screens.
Dimitri is seated at the central desk, his fingers flying over two keyboards like a pianist playing an intricate concerto. The glow of the monitors casts sharp shadows over his angular face, his expression one of complete focus.
“Dimitri, this is your competition.”
He glances up, his smirk sliding into place the moment he sees Sophie. “So this is the expert cryptographer?” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I told you, I don’t need help. I’ll get the thing unlocked soon enough, and then you’ll owe me a bonus, and Nikolai will owe me an apology for doubting me.”
“Show her the file.”
He shrugs, spinning in his chair to face one of the monitors. With a few keystrokes, the screen fills with a series of graphs, codes, and a bold countdown timer sitting ominously in the corner: 29 days, 17 hours, 34 minutes.
“Here’s the deal,” Dimitri says, gesturing to the screen. “A self-encrypting file with layers of security so thick, it’s like wading through quicksand. Once that timer hits zero, the file locks permanently. Whatever’s inside? Gone. Did you install the timer?”
Sophie steps closer to the screen, her eyes narrowing as she studies the data. “Nope,” she mutters, more to herself than to us. “Someone else did and it wasn’t Evan. Someone’s toying with you, Maxim.”
Dimitri spins his chair to face her. “As I told the boss, I don’t need an assistant.”
Sophie’s hands tighten into fists, her shoulders squaring as she turns to face him. “How far have you got since you started?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dimitri says with a dismissive wave. “I know this shit better than anyone. If anyone can crack this, it’s me.”
She glances back at the monitor, the countdown timer ticking away like a heartbeat. Then she turns to me. “I work alone, not with arrogant pieces of shit like this. I’ll do it on my laptop, far away from him.”
“Two heads are better than one.”
“Cliché.” She shakes her head. “You wanted my help. That’s my condition. I work alone in my own space.”