Chapter 1
Chapter 1
I’d spent most of my life in a dark cave. And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical way. Literally.
The underground basement of BD Systems isn’t big or luxurious. It’s a sardine can that can fit three people—if someone agrees to cut off a limb or two. But it has air conditioning, and it’s quiet. The best part? No one bothers coming down to chat with the nerds who occupy it.
Unless, of course, they’re in a rush, the printer jams, and you’re the only one who knows how to fix it. Because that’s what I do all day. I fix broken stuff.
I’m Sloane Heathrow, information systems architect—a really posh way of saying IT girl. Fixer of printer jams. Wizard of resets.
I spend my days drinking coffee from a chipped mug with Yoda’s face plastered on the front. It says: “Fix computers, they do. Break them, you must not.”
It was 7 p.m., and I was stuck in this tuna can while the executives clacked away at their keyboards upstairs. But I didn’t mind—I was paid by the hour and hadn’t paid my electricity bill in a few months. It’d be shut off in a few days if I didn’t hand over something.
Tonight was no different from any other night—until I saw it.
The ad.
While I spun aimlessly in my chair, sipping lukewarm coffee, I liked to surf the web. But not just any web. The dark web.
It was mostly for shits and giggles. I love the thrill of knowing you were prowling through the dark secrets of strangers. There were drugs and weapons, sure, but I didn’t bother looking at those. What I really liked was stolen data.
It was a secret hobby of mine. Stolen data.
It started innocently enough. The occasional Facebook hack. My next-door neighbor. The stranger who called me a bitch at Starbucks when I spilled my coffee on him.
But now it was more. I’d hack into bank accounts just to see what was inside. I never took anything; I just wanted to have a look.
Sometimes I’d get a laugh hacking into a weather forecast dashboard and changing the weather to “Cloudy with a chance of dicks.”
Or I’d hack into the city’s security cameras. Not to play Batman. More like Where’s Waldo, but in real life.
As I was scrolling through one of the browsers on GhostPort, the biggest dark web server on the planet, I saw it. In big capital letters:
ONE MILLION DOLLARS. ONE VIRGIN.
I almost spat out my coffee. It couldn’t be real.
I tapped the link and kept reading.
ONE MILLION DOLLARS FOR ONE VIRGIN.
INTERVIEWS BEGIN TOMORROW.
CONFIDENTIALITY IS REQUIRED.
TAP THE SECURE LINK TO SUBMIT YOUR APPLICATION.
LOCATION: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.
“What?” I whispered to myself, shaking my head. I skimmed the ad a few more times.
I laughed and clicked the button below that said APPLY NOW. An empty form appeared on my screen with a black background and sleek gold lettering. It asked for my first name and then one simple question:
Are you a virgin?
I laughed again and ticked Yes.
After all, it was true…
Application submitted. You will be sent the details for the interview location and time.
I froze. How could it know enough about me to send a confirmation? It was either a prank or…someone knew how to get my information.
And then I panicked.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, typing code faster than I ever had before. I tried breaking through the first wall.
ACCESS RESTRICTED.
The message flashed at me, and I groaned. I clicked and typed frantically, making it past a few visible ports. I scanned, looking for any sloppy CSS code.
Nothing. It was a coded fortress.
ACCESS RESTRICTED.
“Fuck!” I yelled, slamming my hands onto the keyboard.
I looked at the clock. It was time to go home. I sighed. It was probably just a prank anyway. I turned off my laptop and slid it into my bag.
I shut off the lights and air conditioning and locked the door behind me. Then I headed toward the exit, telling myself not to think about it. It wasn’t real anyway.
But for some reason, it still played in my mind.
When I reached my apartment door, I could still see it—the black background, the gold lettering.
ONE MILLION DOLLARS FOR ONE VIRGIN.
I sank onto the couch, letting out a sigh of relief. I was wrecked.
Then I heard it.
Ding.
I pulled out my phone. A new email notification on my personal email.
Subject: Interview Confirmation
“No, no, no,” I whispered. “It wasn’t real.”
I opened the message, and there it was. In true mysterious form, the message had the same black background and gold lettering:
Dear Sloane,
Your application was received. Please arrive at the Diamond Montgomery Hotel tomorrow evening at 8 p.m. sharp. Tardiness is not permitted.
Regards,
The Curator
“No way,” I said softly, my eyes scanning the email over and over again in disbelief.
I had never given them my email address.
The next morning started like any other. My Yoda cup was filled to the brim with cheap coffee, and my co-worker Steve was swearing at his monitor, grumbling something along the lines of, “Why do I spend all my time walking her through how to reset her computer?”
He was on the other side of our tin-can office, wearing a band T-shirt and khakis he’d probably bought in seventh grade.
“Hey,” I grumbled, sitting down in my chair and pulling out my laptop.
He didn’t bother turning. Nerds weren’t always socially inept and we definitely preferred silence.
“You sound like shit,” he said. “Rough night?”
“Yup,” I sighed.
He didn’t ask why. He never did.
But I hadn’t slept. Of course not. I’d been too preoccupied thinking about that application.
You know. The one where I applied to sell my virginity to a stranger for one million dollars.
I’d been up all night checking my firewall, looking for phishing traps, hoping it was just someone trying to hack me. I could deal with that. A hacker.
It happened all the time when you perused the dark web.
But whoever had posted this ad; God damn it, they were a pro. And I was determined to find out who they were. I did not plan on giving up.
The office phone rang, startling me out of my thoughts.
“Your turn,” Steve said dryly. I looked over at his screen. He was playing an RPG on one monitor and drafting an email on the other, explaining that the dog food ad popping up wasn’t a virus.
I groaned and picked up the phone. “Tech support. You’re speaking to Sloane.”
“My meeting’s in five. The printer’s fucked. I need you here,” came a frantic voice.
I turned to Steve, who was now glancing over his shoulder. I mouthed, Guess who?
He rolled his eyes and whispered, “Barb?”
I nodded, pressing my fingers to my temple. We both hated her, and I was pretty sure her coworkers did too. She worked on Level 28, where many of the executives w. We lovingly referred to her as The Bitch on Level 28.
I let her rant for a few moments, then asked sweetly, “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”
Steve snickered as his warlock zapped a zombie on-screen.
“Excuse me?” she gasped.
“I’ll send someone right up,” I said, my voice professional and polite.
I knew she’d do it. She’d turn it off, then back on again. I wouldn’t hear from her until the next disaster.
For a few moments, I’d almost forgotten about the ad.
Then I heard it again.
Ding.
But this time, it wasn’t email. It was a text.
I flicked my screen open and sucked in my breath. A message from an unknown number:
Upon check-in, please meet my assistant in the hotel lobby. She will know who you are.
How the hell was this possible?
