Ch.27: Server Room Hack

The silver card felt like a block of dry ice against my palm. I didn't wait for Isabella to change her mind. I bolted down the service stairs, bypasses the main floor where the Gala’s bass still vibrated through the floorboards, and headed straight for the lower levels.

Leo was waiting in the shadows near the boiler room, his waiter’s jacket discarded. He looked like a man who had already committed a murder in his mind.

"Did you get it?" he rasped.

I held up the card. "West Wing sub-level. The heart of the network."

We descended. The elevator was too risky now, so we took the emergency stairwell—a concrete throat that smelled of damp earth and electrical grease. At the very bottom, tucked behind a heavy steel door that required the crimson-sealed card, sat the server room.

The door unlatched with a sound like a pressurized seal breaking. We stepped into a room that hummed with the collective brainpower of Thorne’s empire. Rows of black cabinets stood like monoliths, their blinking blue and green lights reflecting off the polished floor. It was freezing, the air conditioned to a sharp, dry chill to keep the hardware from melting.

"There," I said, pointing to a central terminal.

Leo took the lead. He was good with machines; he’d spent years bypassing Thorne’s garage security just to keep the cars running. He slid into the chair and his fingers began a frantic dance across the keys.

"I'm in the base directory," he whispered, his eyes wide in the monitor’s glow. "But everything is wrapped in 256-bit encryption. It’s a ghost wall, Elena. I can’t crack this without a physical key or a decrypter."

"Try Isabella’s clearance," I urged. "She said he uses her as a proof of concept. Maybe her biometrics are the override."

Leo shook his head. "It's asking for a secondary auth code. If I guess wrong, it wipes the drive."

I looked at the silver card again. There was a tiny magnetic strip on the back, almost invisible. I noticed a small USB-C port on the side of the terminal.

"Try the card physically," I said, shoving it into the slot.

The screen flickered. A command prompt scrolled at lightning speed. *CRIMSON CLEARANCE ACCEPTED. DECRYPTING DIRECTORY: CHRONOS_MAIN.*

"You did it," Leo breathed.

Files began to populate. Folders for biological data, lab results, and "Disposal Logs." But one folder sat at the top, highlighted in gold: *DISTRIBUTION.*

Leo clicked it open.

A massive spreadsheet filled the screen. It wasn't a list of medical patients. It was a ledger of power. The jargon vanished, replaced by names that made my stomach turn.

I saw the CEO of a global tech conglomerate.
I saw a Supreme Court Justice.
I saw the Crown Prince of a nation I couldn't pronounce.

Next to each name was a "Subscription Tier" and a "Delivery Date."

"This isn't a research project," I whispered, the cold air finally piercing my lungs. "It's a supply chain. He's not just keeping his wife alive. He's selling Daisy to the highest bidders."

My eyes scanned further down, seeing the prices—eight figures for a single "cycle."

Senators. CEO's. Royalty. They are all buying the blood.