The toilet flushed and Crystal emerged from the bathroom. She retrieved light gray jersey briefs and a matching sports bra from her chest of drawers and dressed, seemingly unbothered by either hangover or morning-after regret. “Coffee?”
“Only if it’s quick,” Enda said. “I should go.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” Crystal left the room; clean surgical scars arced across her back like stylized wings.
Enda found her clothes at the foot of the bed. She dressed quickly—unsure if the body odor was from her clothes or her armpits. She checked her phone, found a waiting message from the Mechanic. Opened it to find a detailed data dump for the four hackers.
>> Monica Moniker, real name Monique Yoshino. Nineteen years of age. Currently out of the country. Social media posts suggest she’s on a spiritual retreat, but receipts from her mother’s credit card point to a drug rehabilitation center in Chiang Mai, Thailand.
>> Jay Bones, real name Bong Jun-seo. Sixteen years old. Recently incarcerated at the Daegu Detention Centre, awaiting trial for intellectual property violations.
>> San Doze, aka Park Soo-jin. Seventeen years old. She has an alibi in the form of tickets purchased for the World Cup Grand Final.
>> Doktor Slur, legal name Khoder Osman. Thirteen years old, on record with the Department of Immigration and Border Protection as having entered the country unaccompanied. Place of residence listed as a foster home in Incheon.
Enda furrowed her brow: Natalya had tagged Osman’s record as her pick for the heist’s DIE, but it didn’t sit right.
Crystal returned to the bedroom carrying two mugs. “I forgot to ask, but if you want milk and sugar I can take it back to the kitchen.”
“No, that’s fine,” Enda said. She took the mug, blew on it once, and drank deep, feeling the warmth spread through her system with the promise of caffeine. “I need to make a call.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Crystal said.
Enda took her phone and coffee into the en suite and closed the door behind her. She sat on the toilet and dialed the Mechanic.
“Good morning, Enda.”
“I just had a look at your list,” Enda said, forgoing the formalities. “I don’t buy Osman as the culprit; he’s just a kid. Look at Park again. Maybe she only bought the tickets for the alibi.”
“That seems unlikely,” Natalya said, perfectly calm, seemingly not bothered by Enda second-guessing her. “Soo-jin’s social media profiles are covered in football-related content going back a number of years. She appears to be a genuine and devoted fan.”
“That makes the alibi even better.”
“Permission to access your contex?”
“Granted,” Enda said.
A video appeared over Enda’s vision, floating over the white tile of Crystal’s clean and tidy bathroom. A swath of bright green filled the image—the green of stadium grass under lights. Natalya was showing her shaky handheld footage from the World Cup game, inexpertly chasing a player as they raced toward one end of the field. They kicked the ball, and when it hit the net, the video rocked wildly, then flipped to show Soo-jin’s face crying into the camera while behind her other fans jumped and cheered. Natalya paused the video on the tearful face, and facial recognition software drew guide lines across the woman’s features, registering a match to Park Soo-jin.
“Alright, fine,” Enda said. With a sweep of her arm, the video shunted to the right of her view and disappeared. She went back to the info packet on Khoder Osman. He looked maybe eleven years old in the photo—a skinny kid, maybe North Indian or Pakistani, with large, sad eyes.
She sighed.
“Khoder Osman is a prolific poster on the VOIDWAR forums,” Natalya said, “and has logged over three thousand hours in-game. He was not logged into the game at any point during the time of the burglary, and only posted to the forum three times.”
“How could it have been him if he was posting?”
“This is three posts over a period of three hours. His usual rate is almost ten times that amount. If he is the DIE you’re looking for, he would have been working from at least one connected device. He could have easily posted to the forums during a quiet moment. Or three.”
“Can you track the IP address of the posts? See if it matches the network ID at the rampartment compound?”
“Each post is from a different IP. Obfuscation is indicated, as these IP addresses match known VPN servers located in central Europe.”
Enda put the phone on speaker on the vanity counter, wiped herself, flushed the toilet, and washed her hands. When the roar of water gave way to the hiss of the cistern, she asked: “What about the IP address he usually posts from?”
“Processing,” Natalya said.
Enda waited patiently, inspecting herself in the mirror. Bed hair, yellow crust in the corner of her eyes. She splashed water on her face, but didn’t bother to wash it.
“Over ninety percent of his forum posts originate at a virtual reality café.”
“Send me the address,” Enda said.
“Done.”
“Thank you, Natalya.”
The Mechanic hung up without another word, and Enda couldn’t help but smile at her brutal efficiency.
Enda washed her pits at the sink. She ran her tongue over furry teeth, and swished coffee around her mouth, hoping it would do enough to mask the lingering smell of Crystal on her breath. She left the bathroom and found Crystal sitting up in bed, sipping coffee with her long legs stretched out, feet pointed like a ballerina.
Crystal put her cup down on the bedside table and patted the mattress. “You should come back to bed.”
Enda chewed her lower lip but shook her head. “I can’t.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Crystal said.
Enda’s throat ached as she swallowed. “Oh, I know you will. But I can’t.”
Crystal stood and walked around the bed. She touched a hand to Enda’s face and kissed her slowly on the neck. A chill ran down Enda’s spine, and Crystal kissed her again, leaving a trail up her neck before
