Chapter Two: Captured

(Noah’s Pov)

I’m not saying I regret hacking that crypto wallet.

I’m just saying maybe—maybe—I should’ve waited until I wasn’t two Red Bulls deep and laughing at memes with my socks half off.

Because now, I’m paranoid.

Like... maybe-the-laptop-is-staring-at-me paranoid.

But hey, what’s life without a little self-sabotage?

“Yo, tell me again how you're not going to prison?” Pixel mumbles in my headset. Her voice is warped by the ambient hum of my dying PC fan, but still very judgmental.

I roll onto my stomach, pushing aside a graveyard of snack wrappers. “Pixel, please. If I get arrested, it's because I cracked a dead whale wallet and forgot to clear my browser history. Not because the FBI found me eating cereal shirtless at 2 a.m.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I prefer the term ‘vintage hacker chic.’”

“You’re a nerd in sweats with a death wish.”

“Sexy death wish,” I correct.

My headset crackles as someone new joins the chat. “Is the sexy death wish playing tonight or what?”

That’s Ember, our unofficial team leader. He’s British, cocky, and the only reason I even tolerate online team games. He thinks I’m funny. I think he’s secretly in love with me.

I stretch, bones cracking, and glance at my other screen. The forum post from earlier is still up. Still alive. Still getting likes.

Over 9,000 views now.

Sixty-seven replies.

One anonymous message that just says:

“Hope you’re a light sleeper.”

I try to ignore that one.

“Alright, queue me in,” I say, booting up the game. “I’ve got half a Mountain Dew and a full sense of invincibility.”

“You sound high,” Pixel groans.

“High on hubris, babe.”

The game loads in, and for a while, things feel normal. Gunshots, banter, Ember yelling because I didn’t revive him fast enough—it’s chaos in the best way. This is my world. Digital, safe, predictable.

But then something shifts.

Like... an itch on the back of my neck that won’t go away.

I pause mid-match, frowning.

“Anyone else hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?” Ember says.

I slide the headset off. There it is again. Not a sound, really—more like... silence. The wrong kind. Like my building stopped breathing.

Then comes the creak.

A slow, deliberate floorboard groan from downstairs.

Okay, full transparency: I live alone. No roommates. No pets. No loving parental figures who randomly drop by to check if I’ve died in front of my screen again.

Just me, a busted toaster, and a closet full of hoodies that smell like anxiety.

“Pixel,” I whisper, still staring at the ceiling. “Be honest. If someone was breaking in right now, what would you tell me to do?”

“Hide. Lock yourself in the bathroom and grab something sharp.”

Ember chuckles. “Relax, Lynx. You’re not getting swatted. We’d hear it.”

Another creak. Closer this time. My pulse spikes.

“Guys... I think someone’s in my apartment.”

The line goes quiet.

I get up slowly, headset still on, every footstep silent on the old wooden floor. My fingers tighten around the edge of my keyboard like it’s a weapon. It’s not.

I make it to the hallway, peeking around the corner.

Nothing.

Then—

CRACK.

The lights cut out.

My laptop screen flickers. My heart jumps out of my spleen.

“NOPE,” I say, grabbing my headset. “Someone just fried my breaker. This isn’t a prank. This is a whole horror movie.”

Pixel’s voice is back. Urgent. “Lynx. Listen to me. Go now. Out the back. Don’t use your front door.”

“How do you know I have a back door?!”

“Just trust me!”

The living room lights flicker once, then die. My laptop screen glitches—squares of static crawling up the interface. I slam it shut and grab my phone, backing toward the kitchen.

That’s when I hear it.

Footsteps.

Several.

Too soft for boots, too firm for neighbors. Moving together.

Okay. No more paranoia. This is real.

I bolt.

Kitchen—slam into the drawer—grab the first thing I find: a dull butter knife. Of course I don’t own anything useful. I eat noodles with chopsticks and depression.

The back door’s three steps away when the shadows move.

I spin, heart hammering, and—BAM.

Someone grabs my wrist.

I react the way any totally rational person would.

I scream. Loudly. In their face.

He flinches.

I use that chance to elbow him in the gut and stumble back—but there’s another guy blocking the door.

Tall. Gloved. Calm.

Too calm.

“What the hell—who are you?! You're robbing me? Is this about the Bitcoin post?! Because I SWEAR I didn’t touch the coins—!”

The taller one raises his hand.

“Easy,” he says. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

Oh cool. Creepy guys in black hoodies breaking into my apartment never want to hurt me. Classic!

I throw the butter knife at his face.

He dodges it like he’s in The Matrix.

“Alright, plan B,” I pant. “Die trying.”

I run again, diving for the stairs, thinking maybe if I make it to the roof I can scream for help—but arms close around me before I get three steps up.

A cloth clamps over my mouth.

No.

No no no no—!

I kick. I thrash. I scream into the fabric.

It smells like something sweet. Chemical. It sticks in my throat. My lungs burn. My legs buckle.

“Noah,” the voice says gently, like I’m a stray cat they’re trying to coax into a cage.

I hate that they know my name.

My vision blurs. Everything tilts. My body is heavy. The world is sliding off its hinges.

I’m still fighting.

Still clawing.

But it’s like trying to breathe through sand.

The last thing I see is the kitchen light flickering back to life.

Then everything goes dark.

___

Waking up is like drowning in velvet.

My head is stuffed with clouds soaked in battery acid. My limbs feel like they’ve been replaced with bricks. Expensive bricks. Designer, probably.

Everything is too soft. Too warm. Too not-my-disaster-apartment.

And then there’s the smell—amber and cedarwood and something faintly metallic beneath it.

I blink slowly.

Light slants through tall windows that scream money. The kind of place where people drink sparkling water on purpose and don’t even flinch at the price of caviar.

I’m on a couch.

Not just any couch—a deep charcoal velvet beast that could cradle six people and still have room for emotional baggage.

I try to sit up.

Mistake.

Pain stabs through my skull. My wrists sting.

Oh.

Handcuffs.

Polished steel cuffs chain my wrists together, looped loosely around a gilded bar on the armrest.

Cool cool cool cool cool.

My pulse skitters. My mouth is dry. I’m trying not to panic—but I’m also definitely panicking.

And then...

He appears.

Him.

Like he stepped out of a fever dream designed to ruin my standards forever.

He’s shirtless.

Of course he’s shirtless.

Because why wouldn’t a kidnapping kingpin be built like sin and carved like sculpture?

His skin is pale gold, marred only by a scar that curves like a question mark across his ribs. His black pants hang low on his hips. His hair is dark, slicked back from sharp cheekbones. His eyes—

God.

His eyes.

Cold. Calculating. Blue like ice that remembers fire.

And he’s holding a glass of red wine.

“Ah,” he says softly. “Sleeping Beauty stirs.”

I make a noise halfway between a cough and a scream.

“Where—what—who—why?” I manage.

He chuckles, slow and velvety. “So many questions. You must be Noah.”

The way he says my name—it’s like a secret. Like a threat wrapped in silk.

“Do I know you?” I rasp, because my throat is dry and I’m hoping this is a very elaborate escape room scenario.

He sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of me, sipping his wine like this is the most normal Tuesday in the world. “Not yet. But I know you. You’re clever. Bold. A little too curious for your own good.”

He leans closer.

I flinch.

He smiles.

“Do you remember what you did two nights ago?”

“I jaywalked,” I blurt. “Twice.”

He actually laughs at that. “Try again.”

I squint. “The forum post?”

He nods, pleased. “There it is.”

My mouth goes dry. “I—it was just for fun. I didn’t steal anything.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t. But you could’ve. You waltzed through a secure digital vault, bypassed layers that only two of my top men could ever navigate, and left your little signature behind like it was a joke.”

He sets the wine down.

Leans in.

“I don’t like jokes.”

My heart punches my ribs. “Are... are you the wallet guy?”

His brows lift slightly, amused. “Is that what they’re calling me now?”

He stands. Walks slowly to the tall window, one hand brushing through his hair. He moves like a panther. Coiled, confident, lethal.

“I thought you’d be older,” he says. “Or at least dumber.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He turns. “Oh, you haven’t yet.”

I shift, testing the cuffs. “What is this? Are you gonna kill me? Because, like, heads up—my funeral playlist is fire. Real tearjerker vibes.”

He walks toward me again. My back hits the couch. I can’t help it.

He doesn’t touch me. Just stares. “Do I look like a killer to you?”

“Yes,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

A smirk touches his lips. “Good. Then let me tell you what I am.”

He crouches in front of me, level with my face.

“I’m Lucien Vale. I run things people pretend don’t exist. I’m the name that isn’t spoken, the threat behind threats. And I’m offering you a deal.”

“Does it involve not dying?”

“Yes.”

“I’m listening.”

He gestures to the laptop bag now sitting neatly on the table beside him. My laptop. Great.

“You broke into something I protect. I could’ve erased you. But instead... I’m intrigued. You’re good, Noah. Better than most. And I need someone like you.”

“Like me?” I croak. “You mean an antisocial, emotionally stunted internet gremlin?”

He chuckles. “I mean someone who sees code like language. Who isn’t afraid to dance through firewalls. Who thinks danger is a game.”

He leans in again. His voice drops.

“I want you to work for me.”

The silence that follows is heavier than the cuffs.

I stare at him, unsure if this is a fever dream or a recruitment into hell.

“Like... be your hacker pet?”

“Be my asset,” he corrects. “You’ll be paid. Protected. Fed.”

“Like a stray you picked up from the street.”

“Exactly.”

I swallow. “And if I say no?”

He sips his wine again. Doesn’t blink. “Then you’ll disappear.”

My stomach twists.

“You mean like... sent to Siberia disappear?”

“I mean like you never existed.”

The air between us is electric. Thick with unsaid things.

He doesn’t look angry. Or amused. Just expectant.

And weirdly enough, I don’t feel scared anymore.

I feel... curious.

Because there’s something behind Lucien’s cold mask. Something fractured. Dangerous, yes—but also magnetic.

Like gravity in human form.

“I want my laptop back,” I say.

“Done.”

“I want good Wi-Fi.”

“Faster than government lines.”

“And snacks. Like, the good kind.”

He arches a brow. “I’ll consider it.”

I hesitate.

Then nod.

“I’ll work for you.”

His smile could melt steel. “Excellent.”

He lifts the wine glass in a mock toast.

“To beginnings,” he says.

I stare at him. At the cuffs. At the impossible view outside the window of this penthouse castle.

And for the first time in my life, I think I just stepped off the edge of something I’ll never climb back from.