The morning light poured through the tall windows of Daniel's office, casting long streaks of gold across the hardwood floor. The scent of strong black coffee lingered in the air, untouched on his desk. Daniel sat behind his sleek workstation, the screen before him still displaying lines of encrypted traffic logs from the NeuroSpeech servers.
He had barely slept. Last night, after Esther left him on the terrace with her gentle touch still lingering behind his temples, he'd drowned himself in data, refusing to leave a system he had built vulnerable.
A soft knock came, then the door opened without waiting.
"Morning, sir," Thomas said, stepping in, visibly drained but alert. "We have something. Actually, someone."
Daniel straightened.
Thomas crossed to the desk and dropped a printed folder on the glass surface. "Ibrahim and I went through the entire activity logs, cross-referencing login windows with access credentials and network traffic spikes. It wasn't easy, we had to compare three different layers of data. But around 3:14 AM three nights ago, right before the first breach, we noticed something strange."
He tapped the folder. "Low-level account accessed one of the Level-3 neural datasets from the internal archive. The user had no clearance for that data. What caught us was the timing, odd hours. Most people were long gone. We assumed at first it was a backend bug. It wasn't."
Daniel opened the folder. "Name?"
Thomas hesitated before answering. "Fatmata Kallon. Junior software technician. Been with the company a little under two years. Works in the backend dev team, quiet, stays late sometimes. Doesn't really interact much with the others."
Daniel flipped through the printed logs, timestamps, terminal IDs, network traces. The data didn't lie.
"She used her credentials?" he asked.
"At first, yes," Thomas said. "But she jumped through a subroutine that granted her temp access, cleverly masked under a routine code backup. Almost missed it. She's good."
Daniel's jaw clenched.
"There's more," Thomas added. "She tried exporting a chunk of speech pattern datasets onto an external server. The export was blocked thanks to the new firewall patch Ibrahim set up yesterday, but the attempt triggered a silent alert. That's how we found the link between her login session and the breach."
Daniel leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "She's still reporting to work?"
"Yep," Thomas confirmed. "She clocked in twenty minutes ago."
Daniel was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers against the desk in slow, deliberate rhythm. Then: "Don't spook her."
Thomas nodded. "I figured you'd want to decide the next step."
"I do," Daniel said. "Let's keep this between us for now. I want a full digital mirror of her terminal. Every keystroke, every packet. If she's communicating with someone outside, I want to know. And if this goes deeper, I want the root before we cut the stem."
"You got it."
"And Thomas, good work," Daniel added quietly.
Thomas nodded with quiet satisfaction, then turned and stepped out of the office, gently closing the door behind him.
As he lifted his head, he froze.
Standing a few steps away was Dija, smiling wide, as if she'd been waiting just for him. Her long braids, tinted in warm brown, shimmered under the hallway lights and cascaded down to her waist like silk ropes. She wore a form-fitting emerald green jumpsuit, the fabric subtly glittering with every movement. Gold accents traced the cuffs and neckline, matching the delicate chain belt that cinched her waist. On her feet were designer heels, pointed, glossy, and loud in both brand and price.
Thomas blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and awe.
"First day," Dija said sweetly, swaying slightly in place. "Like the look?"
Thomas's eyes widened. He spun on his heel, already halfway through a retreat before she could reel him in. His day was hectic enough, he didn't need more chaos. And Dija, in all her glittering, high-voltage energy, was the definition of beautifully packaged disruption.
But her voice caught up to him before his feet could.
"Thomas!" she called out, waving like they were long-lost college buddies.
He froze, shoulders stiffening, then turned slowly, forcing a polite smile. "You're… early."
"I'm enthusiastic," she replied, falling into step beside him like it was rehearsed. "Where are we going?"
"I'm going to the lower floor. You're heading to Hawa. She'll walk you through your orientation."
Dija pouted dramatically. "But I'm your assistant, remember? Don't you want me to observe your routine?"
Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples already. "You're not my assistant. You're technically a floating intern under HR. Hawa just… dumped you on me."
"Details," Dija said, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. "Anyway, I'm a visual learner. I'll follow quietly. Like a shadow."
"You are a shadow," he muttered under his breath.
They reached the elevator. Dija leaned casually against the mirrored wall inside, arms folded, eyes pinned on him.
"So… who was that woman you greeted?" she asked, tilting her head. "She gave you serious heart-eyes."
Thomas didn't even look her way. "She's married," he replied dryly.
Dija smirked. "Doesn't mean her eyes didn't wander."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the seventeenth floor of LewisTech's sprawling headquarters, home to the Marketing Department. A low hum of productivity filled the air: tapping keyboards, ringing desk phones, quiet conversations layered over occasional bursts of laughter. Staff in stylish business attire moved with practiced purpose, each focused on their screen, board, or client call.
Dija stepped out and let her eyes wander, a slow smile curling her lips. "Whoa," she murmured under her breath, taking in the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, minimalist décor, and sleek monitors. "This is where the wealth is generated." She inhaled deeply, as if breathing in the scent of money itself. "Not bad."
She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook with gold-etched initials. "So what exactly are we doing here?"
Thomas walked slightly ahead of her, glancing sideways. "We're here to get you settled in. Orientation, introductions… the whole welcome parade."
"And you?" she asked, flipping open the notebook with a pen already poised.
"I have more exclusive fires to put out," Thomas said, not missing a beat as he walked ahead.
"But I'm your assistant," Dija protested, trailing behind in her heels. "Why can't I come with you?"
"You're not my assistant," he corrected without looking back. "You're everyone's assistant. And people here actually have work they need help with."
They stopped in front of a glass office. Thomas knocked twice before pushing the door open with Dija close behind him.
"Moses," Thomas greeted, closing the door behind them.
The man inside, bald, bespectacled, and buried in charts, looked up with a welcoming smile. "Thomas. What brings you to my humble domain?"
"This is Dija. She's a temporary hire in an assistant position," Thomas said, nodding toward her. "She's here to help you and your team wherever you need her."
"I was supposed to be by your side," Dija cut in, folding her arms. "That's why I was hired."
Thomas gave her a dry look. "You weren't hired. You're an intern. And interns assist everyone, at every level."
Before she could respond, he turned to Moses. "She's all yours. Good luck."
With that, he walked out and shut the door behind him.
"You cruel monster!" Dija called after him, glaring at the closed door.
Moses chuckled softly, amused. "So, you're…?"
"Dija," she replied in a flat tone.
Her plan had been simple, stay close to Thomas, charm her way into his heart, and eventually win him over. But now she was stuck here. How was she supposed to make him her boyfriend from afar?
"Dija, come with me," Moses said, gesturing for her to follow.
He led her to a cluster of desks where a young woman with braids sat frowning at her laptop screen. "Dija, this is Harriet, one of our new marketing interns. You'll be assisting her with anything she needs."
Then, with a polite nod, Moses left them to it.
"Hi! I'm Harriet," the girl said warmly, extending a hand. "Marketing intern."
Dija shook it, her mood lifting slightly. Something about the girl's face seemed familiar.
"Wait a second…" Dija narrowed her eyes. "Aren't you the TikToker with, like, over a hundred thousand followers?"
Harriet laughed, pleased. "Yeah, that's me."
"I love your videos!" Dija said brightly. "They're so creative. So, what do you need help with?"
Harriet exhaled in relief. "A PowerPoint for a new market campaign. Honestly, I'm completely lost."
Dija grinned. "Lucky for you, I'm a PowerPoint queen. Let's crush it."
Back at the LewisTech Subdivision, Development Wing
Thomas stepped into the lab, the familiar hum of machines and faint clatter of keyboards greeting him. Inside, Ibrahim and Alie were still hunched over the system console, tirelessly working to stabilize and reboot the neural speech system.
"Ibrahim, how far?" Thomas called out, approaching.
Ibrahim looked up, his eyes weary but focused. "Still on it," he replied with a sigh, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. "Been at this for hours. We're close, but it's delicate."
Thomas nodded, moving closer to the screen. "Did you tell Mr. Lewis about the lead?"
"Yeah. He said to keep things quiet until he gets here," Thomas replied. "So for now, let's focus on getting this system back online."
There was a brief silence, filled only by the soft tapping of keys and the blinking of diagnostic lights.
Then Alie spoke up, hesitant. "Sorry to interrupt… but am I getting fired?"
He looked between the two men, anxiety clear in his eyes. Ever since he'd found out his credentials had been used in the breach, he hadn't been able to shake the dread. He'd never shared his access, not intentionally, except for that one time he let Fatmata help organize some files while he was rushing out for a meeting.
Could that have been when she cloned his ID?
Thomas glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Probably not."
Alie's shoulders dropped slightly.
"But," Thomas added, "you're definitely getting punished."
Alie groaned and muttered under his breath. "Great."
"Just be glad it wasn't worse," Ibrahim said, still focused on the code running across his monitor. "If we hadn't caught this in time, the whole project would've gone dark, for good."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "And someone's already out there trying to make sure it stays that way."
An hour by, Daniel Lewis had arrived.
He had just come in from headquarters, having cleared his morning schedule the moment the evidence became undeniable. Now, he stepped into the room with the kind of stillness that commanded attention. He said nothing as he crossed to the head of the long conference table and took his seat, back straight, face unreadable, fingers laced with deliberate calm.
Behind him, the wall display flickered to life.
The door clicked open.
Fatmata Kallon stepped in, hesitant, but composed. The invitation had come through Thomas earlier that morning: "Mr. Lewis would like a word. Privately."
She had told herself to stay calm, that it could be about anything. But deep down, she knew. She always knew this day would come.
She wore her usual quiet confidence, her uniform neat, her expression measured. But the slight twitch in her fingers betrayed her. A woman holding herself together, barely.
Thomas trailed in silently behind her, closing the door with a soft but deliberate click. The sound seemed to echo in the room like a final seal, a quiet confirmation that escape was no longer an option.
Daniel Lewis sat behind the long conference table, eyes unreadable, posture firm. Not a man rushing to accuse, but one who already had the truth in his hands.
"Take a seat, Mrs. Kallon," Thomas said evenly, gesturing to the chair across from Mr Lewis .
She sat.
The room was still.
The air, thick.
Daniel didn't look up immediately. He let the tension simmer as Fatmata sank into the chair across from him.
"You've been with us almost two years," Daniel began, his voice even. "Hard-working. Quiet. Precise. Almost invisible."
She gave a faint nod, unsure if it was praise or prelude.
"But you weren't invisible to the system," he added, pressing a key on the tablet in front of him.
The wall display lit up. A login timestamp. Then another. A highlighted anomaly. A series of file transfers under Alie's credentials.
Fatmata's breath hitched. They must have discovered she used Alie's pass to gain access.
"You borrowed access," Daniel continued. "Disguised the breach under a dummy maintenance routine. Smart. But not smart enough."
Thomas slid a transparent evidence envelope onto the table. Inside it, a small biometric keypad.
"You left a fingerprint," Daniel said, his voice steady and unyielding. "On the casing of the restricted access module in Lab B. We lifted it during a full forensic sweep."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked on hers.
"The match came in this morning. It was yours. You're done hiding, Fatmata."
Fatmata's shoulders slumped, her composure cracked. Silence flooded the room for a long moment.
"I did it," she whispered at last, her voice flat and resigned. "I set the neural system to crash. I copied the project files last week."
There was no hesitation, no attempt to deny or stall. Just quiet acceptance.
She had always known this moment would come. A company like LewisTech, armed with skilled minds and airtight systems, was never going to let a breach go unanswered. Sooner or later, they were going to trace the steps. And when they did, she would be here, exactly like this.
"Where's the copy?" Daniel asked quietly. "Hand it over, and I'll recommend a lighter sentence."
Fatmata shook her head. "It's not with me anymore."
"Then where?"
Silence.
Daniel leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "I know someone else is involved. You're protecting them. But let me make this very clear, this wasn't just corporate sabotage. This is federal-level theft, and the NeuroSpeech project has government backing. You're not going to disappear quietly into a cell. You're going to be hunted for answers unless you give them willingly."
Still, she said nothing. Her fingers trembled now, but her lips pressed together in quiet defiance.
A knock came. Thomas opened the door to reveal two uniformed officers waiting outside.
Daniel stood slowly.
"You had your chance." His voice was colder now. "I want a full forensic extraction of her devices. Anything she's touched. And keep an eye on all communication channels, we're not done."
As the officers stepped forward and cuffed her, Fatmata looked at him one last time.
"I hope you never find them," she murmured.
Daniel: "Watch me."
The door shut behind her with a metallic snap. Daniel remained still, his gaze lingering on the blinking display, data lines scrolling, encrypted commands running.
There was still a puppet master out there. And Daniel Lewis had just declared war.
Meanwhile, at LewisTech Headquarters ,the low hum of clicking keyboards and printer whirs filled the HR department, a typical morning marked by quiet chatter and orderly chaos. John sat at his station, the perfect portrait of professionalism, until his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, expression unreadable. With a quick, practiced smile to the colleague sitting across from him, he rose and walked calmly toward the corridor.
No one questioned him. He was, after all, the reliable one. The unbothered one.
But once outside, his pace shifted, sharp and focused. He veered toward the men's restroom at the far end of the hallway. It was the only place on that floor with no surveillance and no audio logs.
He stepped in, checked all the stalls. Empty.
Only then did he answer the call.
"What is it?" he asked, voice low and husky, cloaked in restraint.
A beat of silence, then:
"She's been caught."
The voice on the other end was cautious. Nervous.
John's grip on the phone tightened. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes, tension? Disappointment? But it passed quickly. He exhaled slowly, letting a cold, deliberate smile stretch across his face.
"Alright," he said, calm returning like a tide. "Lay low. Inform sir."
Because this wasn't his first fire. He had expected complications. Maybe not this soon, but he was ready.
"What about her?" the voice asked. "Won't she talk? About you… or sir?"
John didn't miss a beat.
"She won't," he said simply, with dangerous certainty. "She'd rather rot in a cell than say my name."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"She's a mother. A desperate one. And I made sure she knew exactly what was at stake. One word from her, and her daughter's life goes up in flames. No way she risks that."
His voice held no remorse. Only cold calculation.
"Just follow instructions. Leave the rest to me. I'll report to sir after work."
He hung up.
In the silence that followed, John stood still for a moment, his expression unreadable, eyes staring at his reflection in the mirror. Then slowly, with a smug gleam in his eyes, he adjusted his collar and slipped the phone into his pocket.
He walked out of the washroom without a trace of guilt or urgency. To anyone watching, he was just another employee heading back to his desk.
But inside, John was already several steps ahead. Daniel Lewis may have found the bait. But the real fisherman still stood deep in the shadows, with the data in his possession, and a buyer waiting.
And if Daniel ever got close to the truth?
Then perhaps it was time someone reminded the great Lewis that no one was too smart to bleed.
And right around eleven to twelve that morning, Fatmata Kallon was escorted to the Freetown Cybercrime Division for further questioning.
The interrogation room was bare, stripped of any comfort or warmth, just gray walls, a steel table, two chairs, and a mounted camera blinking silently in the corner. The air was thick with expectation, the kind that made silence louder.
Fatmata sat still, hands cuffed in front of her on the cold metal surface. Her posture was calm, almost indifferent, but her fingers trembled faintly in her lap. Not from fear, but from the exhaustion of holding in too much for too long.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Inspector Mariama Bangura, an experienced cybercrime officer in her early forties with sharp eyes and a reputation for sniffing out lies like smoke.
She walked in without hurry, holding a manila folder under one arm. She took the seat across from Fatmata and set the file down with a quiet thud.
For a moment, she simply observed the woman, no greeting, no accusations. Just silence.
Then:
"Fatmata Kallon," she said, flipping open the folder. "You understand the seriousness of the charges against you?"
Fatmata's voice was steady. "Yes."
"Unauthorized access to confidential data. Attempted digital theft. Compromise of national-level AI infrastructure. You admit to all of it?"
"Yes. I did it."
Inspector Bangura didn't write a word. She didn't move. She simply leaned back, eyebrows lifting just slightly.
"That's awfully easy," she said. "Most people spend hours denying even opening a wrong file. You… you're calm. Too calm."
Still, Fatmata remained composed, her fingers relaxed around the edge of her cuffs.
"Where is the data you copied?" Bangura asked, voice even.
Silence.
Fatmata blinked once, then looked down at her hands.
"You claim responsibility but refuse to say where the stolen files are. That makes you an accomplice, not just a hacker," the inspector added.
Still, nothing.
Bangura's tone sharpened. "You do realize this affects more than just you, don't you? Your husband… your children… they'll carry your name through the mud. This won't be buried. It's a national case. The media is already watching."
For the first time, Fatmata flinched.
The inspector caught it instantly.
"How will your daughter feel," she continued, voice gentler now, but laced with precision, "knowing her mother is behind bars? That her future will be painted with your sins? Do you think she'll ever recover from the shame?"
Fatmata turned her head, ever so slightly. Her mouth parted, but no words came.
Her eyes, now shimmering, stared at nothing.
Bangura leaned in. "What is it you're protecting? Why take the fall so easily?"
Again no answer .
But inside, something cracked.
She clenched her hands tighter on the cold metal cuffs, the pain grounding her in the present, the ache trying to hold back the tidal wave of memory that surged up from the place she had buried it.
It started with a message.
Anonymous. Untraceable.
Just a single line:
"Meet me tonight or this goes viral."
And below it, a video link.
She remember sitting at her kitchen table that night, the fluorescent light humming overhead, casting shadows on the tiled floor. The rest of the house was asleep, her husband's soft snores echoing from the bedroom,her daughter's door shut tight.
She should've deleted it.
She should've ignored it.
But she clicked.
And her world ended.
She saw her, her child. Her baby girl.
Sixteen. Innocent. Fragile.
She was in a dimly lit room, on a bed she didn't recognize. Disoriented. Her eyes half-shut. She wasn't moving. She wasn't fighting.
And then the men came into frame.
Three of them. Masked. Towering. Laughing.
One by one, they had their way with her.
Tearing away what little of her dignity remained.
She couldn't scream. She couldn't breathe. Hee hands were shaking so hard she dropped the phone. Her stomach twisted so violently she nearly vomited on the floor.
She watched the whole thing. Every second. Because she had to know.
She had to understand what these monsters had done to her baby.
When the video ended, she collapsed onto the cold tiles, curling in on herself like a wounded animal.
The next day, she sat her down and asked her, softly, gently, though she was breaking inside.
And she broke too.
Her daughter said she didn't remember much. One minute she was at a classmate's birthday party, laughing, drinking soda. The next… darkness. Then pain. Blood. Shame.
She didn't know who they were.
She just knew she woke up ruined.
Her daughter had curled into her arms, sobbing in a way Fatmata had never heard before, raw, broken, and terrified. And just as she held her, rocking her back and forth in helpless silence, the second message arrived.
"We have more. If she talks, we post the full video. Everywhere."
Fatmata's chest clenched. Rage tore through her like wildfire. She wanted to scream, to storm into the nearest police station, to hunt them down and tear them apart with her bare hands.
But the girl in her arms, her baby, had begged her not to.
Not for herself, but for her daughter. The same girl who whispered through tears, "Please, mom… don't fight them. Just make it go away."
"Mom, please. Don't let them destroy me. I swear… I'll kill myself if that video comes out."
And she believed her.
Because she saw it in her eyes, the kind of broken that doesn't heal.
The kind that makes silence feel like salvation.
So when another message came, different number, different tone, but same shadowy threat: "You work at LewisTech. We need a small favor…"
She didn't ask questions.
She just said yes.
If selling her soul meant saving her daughter's life, she'd do it again.
Even if it meant prison. Even if it meant dying behind bars.
Even if the world branded me a traitor, a thief, a disgrace.
Because they don't know what it feels like to watch your child die in front of you without taking her last breath.
They didn't know what it meant, to sacrifice everything for the only thing that truly mattered.
"Do you even understand what I'm saying?" Inspector Bangura's voice cut through, pulling Fatmata out of her thoughts.
Tears welled silently in the corners of her eyes, but none fell. She held them back, like everything else.
She turned to face the inspector again. Her voice came soft but steady:
"I did what I did. That's all that matters."
Inspector Bangura closed the folder slowly, her face still unreadable.
"You're hiding someone," she said. "And you're protecting something far more dangerous than jail time."
Fatmata didn't respond. Her silence was now heavier than denial.
The inspector rose from her seat and gave a subtle nod toward the two officers by the door.
"Take her back to holding. We'll dig deeper."
As Fatmata was escorted out, Inspector Bangura remained behind, watching the closed door.
"You're brave," she whispered under her breath. "But brave doesn't keep monsters in the dark forever."