Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Like say yes.
Like ask questions.
Like let that smooth, confident voice talk me into believing this could possibly be anything other than a setup for disaster.
My hand is shaking. The phone trembles in my grip, screen going dark, and I have exactly three seconds of relief before it lights up again.
AuctionAdmin_DarkDesires.
Of course.
I don't answer. I just stare at the screen, watching it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Then call stops.
The silence feels worse somehow.
This is stupid. This isn't real. Shit like this doesn't happen—not to people like me, not in actual reality. It's a fantasy. A dark, fucked-up fantasy that belongs in fiction where it's safe, and contained, and can't actually hurt anyone.
A notification dings from my laptop.
I'm scrambling again before I consciously decide to move. Hands diving back into the pillow mound, shoving blankets aside with increasing desperation to get to my computer, then I yank it into my lap.
The notification is coming from a tab I opened several minutes ago—the one I pulled up in a fit of masochistic curiosity to confirm that yes, I really do only have forty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents to my name.
Except I should be logged out—they do for you. Automatically. When you leave your bank account wide open in a tab. Because god knows, Scarletta, and other morons just like her, can't possibly be expected to log out of something as mundane as an account holding her entire net worth.
But I'm not logged out. And on screen is some kind of receipt. A transaction record. I squint at the small text, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing in the dim glow of string lights.
Is that my...
Holy shit.
It's my account balance.
But it can't be my account balance.
Because I have forty-seven dollars. Not one thousand and forty-seven dollars. Not a randomly round deposit of exactly one thousand dollars that appeared in my checking account at 11:59 PM on December 23th with a transaction note that reads simply:
Good faith deposit
AuctionAdmin_DarkDesires.
I refresh the page.
The number doesn't change.
One thousand and forty-seven dollars.
The number stares back at me, impossible and real.
Another ding.
A new notification banner appears at the top of my screen, overlaying the bank website with a message from DarkDesires PM's:
Good faith deposit. It's yours regardless of your decision. All you have to do is click [CONFIRM INTEREST] to proceed.
Five seconds.
Four.
Three.
I click confirm.
Chapter 4
Scarletta
The screen blinks.
Then goes black.
No. No no no no—
What did I just do?
My heart slams forward, a reminder that I'm an idiot. A complete fucking idiot. Because that's what happens when you click random links from anonymous strangers who somehow have your phone number, and your bank account information, and your name—
This is a phishing scheme.
Obviously.
It's always a phishing scheme. Or malware. Or—what are they called? Trojan horses? Are those still a thing? Do people still use that terminology or did I just age myself by referencing a term from third grade?
God, I'm so stupid.
So monumentally, catastrophically stupid.
The kind of stupid that gets featured on true crime podcasts where the host uses that particular tone of sympathetic condescension while describing the victim's poor choices. "Scarletta Mae Desmond, 26, clicked a suspicious link at 11:59 PM on Christmas Eve Eve. Her dismembered body was discovered three days later in a storage unit in Newark."
My laptop is still black.
Completely dark.
I stare at the void of the screen, my own pale reflection visible in the glossy surface. Wide eyes. Messy hair pulled into a bun that's mostly fallen apart. The string lights behind me casting an amber glow that makes me look jaundiced.
I look like someone who makes terrible decisions.
Because I am someone who makes terrible decisions.
This is why I don't have friends. This is why Derek left. This is why my mother stopped calling. Because I'm fundamentally broken in ways that make me unsuited for actual human interaction. I should just stay in my blanket fort forever, writing about people who are braver than me, smarter than me, better at—
The screen blinks.
It's not black anymore.
There's... something loading. A progress bar. White text on a dark background that looks nothing like my normal desktop.
Initializing secure download...
TOR Browser Installation Package
Timer:
00:58
Another countdown.
Another impossible choice with no time to think.
Am I really this stupid? Am I actually going to—
A notification dings.
DarkDesires forum. Still open in another tab somehow, which shouldn't be possible if my computer just got hijacked, but clearly the rules of logic don't apply tonight.
The message is from AuctionAdmin_DarkDesires:
You have $1000 good faith money. The link is safe. TOR is a secure browser used for anonymous communication. Look it up. You have 45 seconds.
Look it up.
Right.
Because I definitely have time to research internet security protocols while a countdown timer ticks away and my entire computer is potentially being compromised by—
My fingers are already moving.
Open Chrome. New tab. Google search. "What is TOR browser."
The results populate immediately. Wikipedia. Reddit threads. A dozen tech articles with varying levels of paranoia.