The license plate number was a string of meaningless digits to most people. To Alex, with the CODEX system at his fingertips, it was a key. He didn't rush. Back in his room, the familiar green HUD a comforting presence, he methodically layered his approach.
He started with the public-facing tools his new skills provided. Using a anonymized browser session routed through his 'GHOSTNET' layer, he ran the plate through a series of private vehicle registration lookup services. The results were a dead end—a generic corporate leasing company, a shell that shielded the true owner.
This was expected. He needed deeper access.
[USER: ALEX CHEN // DESIGNATION: ARCHITECT]
[CODE POINTS: 270]
His CP was dwindling. He needed this to work. He navigated the System Shop, his eyes scanning the [UTILITIES] section. He found what he was looking for, a pricey but precise tool.
[DEEP DATA SCRAPE (SINGLE TARGET)] - 200 CP
He purchased it, feeling the points drain away. He now had a paltry 70 CP left. He input the license plate number. The system didn't hack; it was more sophisticated. It began aggregating and cross-referencing every conceivable piece of public and semi-public data associated with that plate—traffic camera databases with weak security, parking violation records, toll road transponder logs, even blurred images from gas station security feeds that were inadvertently exposed online.
It was a digital dragnet, and it caught a fish within minutes.
A grainy, black-and-white image from a traffic cam on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway appeared on his screen. The car. The timestamp was from the day of the vandalism, two hours before the incident. The system had automatically enhanced the driver's face. It wasn't a perfect picture, but it was clear enough. A man in his late twenties, short-cropped hair, a strong jaw. He looked ex-military.
But the real prize was the data attached to the image. The system had correlated the plate with a name from a database of private security contractor licenses. The man's name was Marcus Thorne. He was a licensed armed guard, employed by "Aegis Shield Solutions."
Aegis. The name was a punch to the gut. It was the name he had chosen for his own firewall, for his future company. The irony was vicious. This thug worked for a company whose name meant "protection."
A quick search revealed Aegis Shield Solutions was a high-end, discreet corporate security firm. The kind that didn't advertise in the yellow pages. Their client list was, of course, confidential. But Alex didn't need their client list. He knew. Julian Reed. Omni-Secure.
He had his thread. Marcus Thorne was the blade. Aegis Shield was the hand holding it. And Julian Reed was the brain giving the order.
The mission update flashed.
[CRISIS MISSION: DEFEND THE NEST.]
[STATUS: PERPETRATOR IDENTIFIED - MARCUS THORNE.]
[SUB-OBJECTIVE: GATHER LEVERAGE AGAINST MARCUS THORNE.]
[REWARD: 100 CODE POINTS.]
Leverage. He needed something to make Thorne back off, to make him a liability for his employers rather than an asset.
He initiated another [DEEP DATA SCRAPE], this time on Marcus Thorne himself. The system churned, pulling from social media fragments (he had a nearly empty Facebook profile), professional licensing boards, and financial records. Alex learned he lived in a apartment in Astoria, drove a motorcycle, and had a clean—suspiciously clean—record.
Too clean. For a guy who did corporate intimidation, there should be noise. Complaints, dismissed charges, something. The silence itself was a data point. It meant he was good, and his employers were better at cleaning up messes.
Alex needed a different angle. He couldn't beat Thorne physically. He couldn't expose him through official channels. He had to get into his head, into his digital life.
He remembered the [SOCIAL ENGINEERING] skill from the shop. He couldn't afford it now. But he had the basic principles from his other skills. He needed to craft a message, a psychological virus.
He spent hours researching Thorne. The man was a ghost online, but his motorcycle was a clue. Alex found a forum for the specific model Thorne owned. He created a fake profile, a fellow enthusiast. He posted a technical question, carefully worded to be plausible. He didn't target Thorne directly. He just made his profile visible in that digital space.
Then, he waited. Two days passed. The shattered mirror had been replaced, a raw, new piece of plastic on the old cab. The tension in the apartment was a live wire. His father was silent, his mother nervously glancing out the window.
Then, a break. His fake profile got a private message. It wasn't from Thorne, but from another user. "Hey, saw your post. You in NYC? There's a few of us that meet up sometimes."
It was a tiny crack, an entry point into a community Thorne might be part of. Alex engaged carefully, playing the role of a new rider. He learned the diners and parking lots where this group sometimes gathered.
He wouldn't confront Thorne. That was suicide. But he could observe. He could learn his habits, his routines. He needed a vulnerability, a pattern he could exploit.
He started spending his evenings near those locations, his [SITUATIONAL AWARENESS] and [URBAN TRACKING] skills on constant alert. It was exhausting, a second, secret life layered over his work with Chloe and the maintenance of Sentinel. He was burning the candle at both ends, the fatigue a constant fog.
During a coding session with Chloe over their encrypted chat, she noticed.
Chloe: You've been quiet. And your last commit had a stupid error you'd never normally make. What's going on? Is it the Omni-Secure thing?
He stared at the message. The temptation to confide was immense. But he couldn't. She can't be involved in this. This is my fight.
Alex: Just tired. Family stuff. The rent increase has everyone on edge.
It was a half-truth, and she seemed to accept it, but her next message was pointed.
Chloe: Okay. But remember, we're building a fortress in the open, with code. Don't get drawn into a knife fight in an alley. You'll lose.
Her words were a chilling echo of his own fears. But the alley was already his battlefield.
A few nights later, his patience paid off. He was sitting in his car—he'd started using his father's cab on his "off-hours," a necessary risk—parked a block away from a diner popular with the motorcycle crowd. And he saw him. Marcus Thorne, in jeans and a leather jacket, laughing with two other men. He was off-duty. Human.
Alex watched him for an hour. He saw the way Thorne carried himself, the confident swagger. He saw him check his phone constantly. Not with worry, but with a kind of eager anticipation.
And then he saw it. Thorne pulled out his personal phone—a sleek, new iPhone—and took a selfie with his friends, the bikes in the background. He laughed, typed something, and put it away.
A selfie. Posted to a social media account Alex hadn't found because Thorne used a pseudonym. But the CODEX system, still passively monitoring, caught the image's metadata and the faint digital signature of the post. It cross-referenced the image with the faces in its database.
A new profile surfaced. "M_Thorne87" on Instagram. A private account, but the profile picture was visible. It was him.
It was a tiny window, but it was enough. Alex now had a direct line into Thorne's personal, unguarded life. He didn't need to hack the account. He just needed to watch. To learn.
He had unraveled the thread from a license plate to a name, from a name to a face, and from a face to a life. He hadn't neutralized the threat yet, but he had it in his sights. He was no longer just defending. He was learning the enemy's patterns, his habits, his weaknesses.
The hunter was studying his prey, and the prey had no idea he was being watched.