Chapter 8
GHOST
Something was wrong with her content.
I stared at my screens, reviewing the files Daisy had submitted for approval before posting. The shots were technically perfect—composition balanced, lighting ideal, subjects clearly showcased without revealing sensitive details.
But compared to her previous submissions, these lacked... something. Energy. Focus. The precise quality she'd argued was essential for engagement.
Not my area of expertise. Not my concern as long as security protocols were maintained.
And yet.
I pulled up the club's surveillance footage from yesterday's shoot at the literacy center, observing Daisy's behavior. Comparing it to previous sessions.
The difference was subtle but unmistakable. Tension in her shoulders. Frequent phone checks. Distracted glances toward exits. Reduced interaction with subjects.
Classic signs of heightened threat awareness. I recognized them because I lived them.
The question was: what had triggered her alert status?
I switched to my monitoring dashboard, pulling up her social media accounts. Nothing obvious in public comments. Engagement metrics stable. Content performance within expected parameters.
Deeper inspection of backend data revealed the anomaly—multiple login attempts from unknown IP addresses over the past 48 hours. Geolocation suggested Chicago area. Repeated pattern suggesting automated attempts rather than random trolling.
Someone was trying to access her accounts. Systematically.
Professional instinct kicked in. I implemented additional security measures on her profiles, routing alerts to my system rather than hers. Added her personal email to my monitoring protocols. Established deeper tracking on the Chicago IP cluster.
Standard security response. Nothing more.
The door to my tech cave opened—unusual enough that my hand moved automatically to the weapon secured under my desk before I registered it was Steel.
"Progress report," he stated, settling into the chair Daisy usually occupied during our reviews. "How's the social media project going?"
I minimized the security scan running on Daisy's accounts. "Content guidelines maintained. Security protocols observed. Initial metrics meeting expectations."
Steel's eyebrow rose. "That's the technical assessment. What about the working relationship?"
Unexpected question. I considered my response carefully.
"Professional parameters established and respected."
"That's not what I asked," Steel countered, leaning forward. "Brothers saying you're hovering like she's handling nuclear codes instead of a camera."
I stiffened. "My job is security."
"Your job is facilitating this project while maintaining security," Steel corrected. "Different thing entirely."
I said nothing, waiting for the actual point of this conversation.
Steel sighed. "Ghost, I get it. Openness isn't your natural state. But this partnership is important for the club's evolution. Need you committed to making it work, not just preventing worst-case scenarios."
"I am committed," I stated flatly. "Twelve security protocols implemented specifically for this project. Custom monitoring systems. Dedicated review processes."
"All walls," Steel observed. "Where are the doors?"
The metaphor irritated me with its imprecision, but I understood his meaning.
"Content approvals have been consistent with project parameters," I pointed out. "Only three submissions rejected on security grounds."
"Progress," Steel acknowledged. "But I'm hearing she's getting restricted access to authentic moments. The Aaron situation. Thunder's charity ride prep. The kind of content that actually helps our image."
I maintained eye contact. "Minors and operational details remain security risks regardless of PR value."
Steel studied me for a long moment. "You trust her?"
The question caught me off guard. Trust wasn't a variable in my security equations. Binary states existed—verified or unverified. Secured or compromised.
"Trust is irrelevant," I finally said. "Systems are in place to eliminate dependency on trust."
Steel shook his head. "And that's exactly your problem. This isn't just a system, Ghost. It's a human relationship. Professional one, sure, but still requires some level of trust to function."
He stood, apparently done delivering his message. "Find some middle ground. Project's important enough that I don't want to reassign it, but I will if necessary."
After he left, I sat motionless, processing. Steel rarely issued direct warnings. The fact that he had signaled the project's priority level—higher than I'd initially assessed.
My phone lit up with a notification. Daisy, requesting early access to the clubhouse tomorrow. Unusual deviation from established schedule.
"Need to reshoot some literacy center content. Morning light better for the reading nook. 8am possible?"
I stared at the message, trying to determine if it connected to her distracted behavior. To the unauthorized login attempts. To some security variable I hadn't mapped.
"Confirmed," I replied. "Front entrance only. Standard protocols."
Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. "Thanks. Can we discuss content parameters? Some shots from yesterday won't work."
Another anomaly. She usually defended her work aggressively, arguing creative necessity against my security objections.
"Issues?"
Another pause. "Technical problems. Lighting. Focus. My fault."
Definitely not standard behavior.
"8am. Will review," I confirmed, adding another alert to my monitoring systems.
Something was wrong. And despite what I'd told Steel about trust being irrelevant, I found myself concerned rather than simply alert.
Unprofessional. Irrelevant to security protocols.
Yet undeniably present.
DAISY
Another message notification lit up my phone screen.
"Your content makes you look cheap. Just like you."
I deleted it like the others—fourteen in the past three days. All from different accounts. All with the same tone. All clearly from the same person.
Just internet trolling. Hazard of the job. Nothing I hadn't dealt with before.
Except these felt different. More targeted. More personal. And increasingly frequent.
I set my phone face-down, returning to my content review. The shots from yesterday's literacy center session were technically fine but lacked the engagement quality my sponsor expected. My distraction had affected my work—unprofessional and potentially costly if I couldn't fix it tomorrow.
My phone buzzed again. I ignored it.
Focus on work. On the opportunity that could help keep Dad in treatment. On the content Ghost would actually approve without his security objections.
Ghost. The human firewall who'd somehow become a fixed feature in my daily routine. Whose approval I now anticipated with a mix of dread and something else I refused to examine too closely.
Working with him was like trying to photograph a shadow—just when I thought I'd captured something real, it slipped away behind carefully constructed barriers.
Yet occasionally, flickers appeared. Brief moments when the security protocol fell away and someone else emerged—someone observant. Intelligent. Even, rarely, understanding.
I couldn't afford to think about that now. The reshoots tomorrow needed to be perfect. The sponsorship payments were keeping Dad's treatment going, covering medications insurance considered "optional" but doctors called essential.
My phone buzzed a third time. Against better judgment, I checked.
"I'm watching you. Always watching."
A chill ran through me. Different from the others. More threat than insult.
I blocked the account, set my phone to Do Not Disturb, and returned to preparation for tomorrow. Just another troll. Nothing more.
The mantra didn't quite convince me, but it would have to do.