Vengeance Algorithm

It had been three years since Reid Brecken's life's triumph turned into a freefall, and he’d been falling ever since, scraping rock bottom with every passing month. Outside, rain pounded against the grimy windows of his apartment, a relentless drumming, drowning out the feeble wail of the dying radiator. This wasn't the calming sound of a Seattle drizzle; but the clamor of a world trying to wash him away.

Now, he sat huddled over an old battered table, the pale light of a salvaged tablet casting unforgiving shadows on the hollows of his cheeks. On the screen, a society page splashed:

"Chloe Vaughn & Tech Titan Marcus Vaughn Light Up Met Gala!"

Chloe, breathtaking in pea-green silk, clung to Marcus’s arm, his smug grin like a knife thrust in Reid’s gut.

The apartment, sparsely furnished, reeked of damp rug, rotting pizza, and mocking defeat.

An eviction notice, plain and official, was expertly taped to the door like a plaque -- three months behind on rent. He was also behind on the internet subscription; the modem’s service lights were out. Disconnected. The final severing of his link to the online world he’d once helped thrive.

His only hope was a low-budget phone lying silently beside the tablet- a reflection of his fallen prospects.

On the tablet’s screen, an image of Chloe, ecstatic, taunted him, triggering a vivid and brutal flashback that exploded behind his steamy eyes:

It was the CipherCore launch party. Skyline views, champagne towers, the electric hum of anticipation. Reid, at 38, vibrant, a commanding figure in a well-tailored suit. The architect of the next revolution in quantum encryption. Chloe, his fiancée, dazzling beside him, wore the smile of a promising shared future. Then Marcus Vaughn, the silver-tongued tycoon, raising a toast, his words smooth poison. Security personnel moving with sudden, grim purpose. The mic cutting out as Reid tried to speak. Chloe’s face, beautiful and utterly cold. "It’s over, Reid. The evidence is undeniable. You never had brains–just a deluded loser." Forged documents flashed on screens – intellectual property theft, financial malfeasance. The gasps of the crowd turning to murmurs of disapproval. Hands gripping his arms, hauling him out, past the flashing cameras, Chloe’s dismissive wave was the last thing he saw before the elevator doors closed on his old life. Then the avalanche of lawsuits, frozen assets, blacklisted whispers echoing through every tech firm and hub. His reputation, his company, his future – erased.

Reid slammed a fist savagely on the rickety table, rattling the empty pizza cantons. The lingering taste of champagne turned to bile in his throat. He scrolled fanatically through Chloe’s catalogue of perfection: vacations, charity galas, Vaughn’s flourishing empire built on his stolen life’s work. Each image was a fresh injury, birthing rage, coiled cold and tight in his chest. It was the only thing keeping the crushing despair at a distance. It fueled the long hours spent combing the dark web, hunting traces of the flaw he’d deliberately buried deep within CipherCore’s code – a tiny, genius backdoor only he knew, his Plan B, rendered useless when they stole the keys to the kingdom.

With a single harsh buzz, the cheap phone vibrated, cutting through the rain’s pounding and Reid’s spiraling thoughts. He snatched it up. A text message from a blocked number:

CipherCore’s flaw is real. West knows. Plaza Bar. 10 PM. Come clean.

Reid froze, his blood turning cold. The flaw. Who else could know? West, the name rang a bell. Could this be a trap to erase the last loose end? A cruel joke from one of the hyenas circling his carcass? Or… a last-minute lifeline thrown to a drowning man? “Come clean?" Only he knew that phrase. The same internal command he’d coded into the flaw’s trigger sequence.

Desperation, his faithful companion, wrestled with suspicion deep in his bones. He had nothing left to lose. No job, no money, no dignity. Just this crumbling apartment and a ticking eviction clock. But the promise of answers, the whisper of West, the hope for an opportunity of revenge outweighed any risk.

He hunted through pockets, drawers, the couch cushions, scraping together every damp bills and loose change - barely enough for the bus fare.