Chapter 3
The fluorescent lights of CyberLink Cafe flicker above me as I hunch deeper into my hoodie, focused on the laptop screen. Here, nobody pays attention to another masked face curled toward a computer.
Perfect.
My fingers dance across the keyboard while I scan the room one more time, confirming I’m still positioned in the blind spot between the two security cameras mounted in the corners.
The scent of burnt coffee and grease from the burger place next door mingles with the sour tang of bodies that have been sitting too long without moving.
The clacking of keyboards, hushed conversations, and the hiss of the espresso machine at the back of the shop offer a blanket of anonymity better than any VPN.
But I use those, too, three of them bouncing my signal across continents before I even think about opening a browser.
The barista calls out an order, and I keep my head down as a man in a wrinkled suit approaches the counter. The laptop I’m using isn’t mine, not really. It’s a burner, paid for in cash at a pawn shop across town. Nothing connects back to me or The Solace.
A server pauses at my table, coffee pot in hand. “You want a refill?”
I shake my head without looking up. “No thanks.”
My fingers return to typing as soon as she walks away. The prepaid debit card I purchased this morning sits beside my laptop, already loaded into the café’s payment system. Fifty dollars, enough for a day’s work and untraceable back to any of my accounts.
I pull up the admin dashboard I built, a custom program that tracks users across my various platforms. Every comment, every tip, every private message gets logged, filtered, and analyzed to hunt for predators.
The list of flagged users appears on my screen. I sort them by threat level using a custom formula that considers factors like message frequency, content aggression, personal information requests, and comment patterns during my shows.
“Let’s find you,” I mutter to myself, scrolling to the newest addition.
StormWatcher88 first appeared in my chat six months ago.
Quiet at first, nothing but benign comments and modest tips.
Then came the private message requests, which I declined after my filtering system flagged concerning language patterns.
Three weeks ago, they began commenting during every stream, using increasingly possessive language, which earned him a block.
Which is when an anonymous user popped up with the same type of comments, escalating even faster behind the screen of anonymity.
The pattern fits.
I click through to the deep search function of my program, letting it comb through public records, social media accounts, and message boards associated with the email address StormWatcher88 used to register on my platform.
The cafe’s overhead speakers crackle with static before switching songs. Someone behind me laughs too loudly. I roll my shoulders, working out the tension, and take a sip of cold coffee.
My program pings with results, and I lean forward. “Gotcha.”
StormWatcher88 is active on seventeen different platforms, including several private forums for Alpha supremacists. The profile photos vary, but the writing style remains consistent. I skim through forum posts where he details fantasies of “claiming” Omegas and forcing them into submission.
My stomach turns when I find a thread titled “Marking What’s Mine.”
A new window pops up as my program finds connections between accounts. StormWatcher88 is also RainMaker22, AlphaDom456, and BoxCollector99.
This last one sends my pulse racing.
“Subtle,” I mutter, clicking through to the BoxCollector99 account.
This one’s on an image-sharing platform with restricted access, but I’ve had backdoor entry for months. The account contains folders of screenshots, all Omega cam performers, all organized by name.
I scroll until I find the one labeled ElliotUnleashed.
Inside are hundreds of images captured from my streams. Close-ups of my face during intimate moments. Screenshots where the background of my apartment is visible. Notes on what he thinks are “patterns” in my schedule.
My breath catches when I find a post from three weeks ago: “Sending a personal gift to my favorite Omega. Can’t wait to see his reaction when he realizes I’m watching.”
The date matches the timestamp of when the package would have been sent.
I dig deeper, pulling up IP logs from when BoxCollector99 accessed the site. They vary, as he’s using VPNs, too, but there’s one consistent location where uploads always originate from. A coffee shop in Brickwell, three blocks from the shipping facility where my package was dropped off.
My fingers move faster as I access municipal records and cross-reference with property databases near that coffee shop. A pattern emerges, where one name appears on lease agreements for both an apartment above the coffee shop and a storage unit near the shipping facility.
Travis Thornhill.
The chair creaks as I lean back, considering the name. It means nothing to me, not even a ping of recognition. Not a regular client, nor someone I’ve met.
But that doesn’t matter. I have what I need.
I connect my encrypted drive and transfer the screenshots of his posts, IP logs, property records, and the digital trail connecting StormWatcher88 to the package. The flash drive pulses with a blue light as it copies the data.
While waiting, I access Travis’s work history. Security guard at a mall. Bouncer at a club that closed last year. Currently employed at… My breath catches. A mail processing center in Brickwell.
The pieces click into place. He works at the facility responsible for handling my packages. He would have access to my real PO Box number.
The flash drive beeps, signaling the transfer is complete. I eject it and slip it into my pocket, then launch the program that deletes all browser history, cached files, and temporary data, overwriting the information seven times with random code.
I shut the laptop, disconnect from the café’s Wi-Fi, and slide everything into my backpack. The server glances my way as I stand, but her eyes slide past me, already focused on the next customer.
Outside, the afternoon sun temporarily blinds me.
I keep my head down, hoodie still up, and merge into the flow of pedestrians.
Three blocks north, I drop the prepaid card into a storm drain.
Five blocks east, I remove my hoodie and surgical mask, stuffing them into my backpack.
By the time I board the bus heading toward Ashford Heights, I’m just another commuter on his phone.
But my hand stays curled around the flash drive in my pocket, fingers tight with purpose. I have a name now. I have proof. And Saint will know what to do with it.
The Blue Note Lounge exists in that perfect sweet spot between forgotten and discovered.
The kind of place where the bartender remembers regular faces, the lighting stays dim enough to hide the stains on the booth cushions, and the jazz playing through ancient speakers is always twenty years out of date.
Saint sits in our usual corner, back to the wall, both exits in his line of sight. His posture appears relaxed to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to notice the constant readiness in his shoulders.
I slide into the booth across from him, and he pushes a glass toward me without asking what I want. The amber liquid catches what little light filters through the frosted windows.
“You’re late,” Saint says without accusation.
“Had to take three different buses.” I lift the glass, the scent of good whiskey filling my nose. “Paranoia tax.”
Saint raises his own glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. “Find anything?”
“Everything.” I slide the thumb drive across the table. “Meet our underwear enthusiast.”
Saint slips it into his pocket. “Tell me about him.”
The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat. “He works in the mail processing facility for my PO Box.”
“What?” Saint leans forward. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
I wave away his concern. “Don’t worry. I already switched locations.”
“What else?” Saint demands.
“I’ve got him connected to at least three other accounts harassing Omegas online. He’s been collecting screenshots of me for months.”
Saint’s fingers tap a slow rhythm on the table’s scarred surface. “He knows what you look like.”
“Not hard when I don’t wear a mask online,” I say, regretting that decision now.
“Think he’s hung around, waiting for you to pick up mail and followed you back to The Solace?”
I shrug. “If he has, he hasn’t made it up to my floor. I checked all the cameras.”
“You doing another show tonight?” Saint asks.
“Just a short one, followed by a private session with a regular.”
Saint arches a brow at me. “Just a regular? Or the regular?”
A flush rises to my cheeks, and I swirl the whiskey in my glass, watching it catch the light. “Leave it alone. It’s nice to pretend.”
Saint grunts. He’s already made his opinion on GentlemanX known, and we’ve agreed to disagree.
The music shifts, heavier bass thrumming through the wooden booth. Saint and I let it fill the silence between us, the kind that comes easy after years of leaning on each other.
I catch him watching me and note the faint crease at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t have to say anything for the memories of the night we met to surface.
I was sixteen, terrified, and feverish with my Heat, locked in my room at Omega House. This was before the Omega Outreach Program got traction, back when the government just shoved us into any city-run facilities.
The House Manager, an Alpha with dead eyes and alcohol on his breath, had used his master key to let himself inside. The memory of his silhouette blocking the light from the hallway still features in my nightmares.