All Chapters of Trigger Code: Obey The Devil: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

(Noah's POV) Okay, look. I didn’t mean to rob a mafia boss. It was supposed to be a stupid flex—like, “Look what I can do, losers,” then vanish back into the depths of my energy-drink-infested cave before anyone noticed. But no. Of course not. Because the universe has a personal vendetta against me. But let’s rewind. It started with boredom. The kind that sinks in at 2:13 a.m. when you're on your fifth Red Bull, your fingers are twitching, and the rest of the world is asleep or dead, I guess. I was in the mood for mischief. Small mischief. Hacker mischief. I cracked my knuckles over my battered mechanical keyboard, eyes squinting through blue-light glasses I haven't cleaned in weeks, and dove into my usual mess of VPNs, spoofers, and code snippets that probably violate at least seven federal laws. Just for fun, I targeted a cold Bitcoin wallet. No movement in months. Hidden behind weak encryption like it was a grandpa’s savings account. Too easy. Within 40 minutes, I was in

(Noah's POV) If you ever find yourself handcuffed in a billionaire’s penthouse, staring at a shirtless man who smells like dominance and danger, do me a favor: Don’t agree to anything before asking where the hell the bathroom is. Because me? I said yes to working for this guy, and now I'm still in the same position— cuffed, confused, and low-key kind of aroused. And I still don’t know where to pee. Lucien hasn’t left. He sits across from me in a leather armchair now, legs crossed like a painting, sipping his wine like this is just another Tuesday where he kidnaps morally ambiguous internet boys. "Let's discuss your contract," he says, tapping the rim of his glass. "You mean like... benefits and vacation days?" I deadpan. He doesn’t smile. But his lips twitch. That’s something. "You’ll hack for me. Exclusively. No freelancing. No games. In return, I offer full protection, housing, and access to tech even the NSA would weep for.” "Cool. So, hacker-in-residence-slash-digital-pri

(Third Person's Limited – Noah’s POV) It had been three days. Not that anyone told him. Time didn’t pass normally in this place. Lucien had somehow sealed the windows in his room, and there's no digital clocks. All Noah has is schedules, routines, and perfectly timed meals. Today, like the last two, he woke to structure: clothes folded on a velvet bench: soft black joggers, a clean-fitted tee, socks that felt like clouds. A printed schedule sat on the corner of the desk: 7:30 a.m. - Wake. 8:00 a.m. - Breakfast. 9:00 a.m. - Work Assignment. Noah stared at it like it might bite. Everything here ran on someone else’s clock. Not his. He missed chaos. The clutter, the absurdity of five different tabs arguing with strangers on forums, the freedom to eat Doritos at 2 a.m. in boxers that hadn’t seen daylight in months. This... this life felt too curated, too smooth… It's like a fancy zoo exhibit. He felt like he was being watched, and that was the worst part. He's starting to hate the iso

(Noah's POV) I was not built for structure. Routine makes me itchy. Schedules make me homicidal. And someone telling me what to wear? That makes me want to hack their identity and sign them up for clown school. Lucien’s world was all of the above. Monochrome perfection, timed meals, hushed hallways where even the goddamn air obeyed him. I hated how fast I got used to it. Or maybe… how fast it got me to get used to it. That morning, I woke up before the sun. Not because I was disciplined. But because apparently my internal clock now ran on murder daddy’s time zone. There was a note on the bedside table that says: Don’t break anything. Don’t steal anything. You’ve got two hours before I check in. It wasn’t signed, but who else here wrote like they were God and I was Job? Lucien. Of course. So, naturally, I broke two things and stole a spoon.  I spent the next hour crawling through the server Lucien assigned me to "poke around in” — which was code for: get intel, look useful, do

(Noah's POV) I woke up to the sound of a bell. A real, tiny, metallic chime. Not an alarm. Just the sound of humiliation on a silver chain. And I knew— knew— it had Lucien written all over it. I rolled out of bed, collar still at my throat (don’t judge me), and walked barefoot into the main penthouse space. He was there. As usual. Sitting on the sofa like he built it, manspreading, black shirt open just enough to make my brain short-circuit. He didn’t even glance at me. Just said, “Sit.” “Excuse me?” I blinked. He patted the floor next to him like I was a corgi. “Sit, Noah.” I laughed. Loud. “You want me on the floor now?” He turned his head slowly. Calmly. “Only if you’re earning your points today.” I should’ve walked out. I should’ve thrown the little bell at his face and demanded a plane ticket to literally anywhere else. Instead, I sat. On the floor. And immediately regretted all my life choices. Lucien handed me a tray. Toast, coffee, scrambled eggs with stupid herbs