Bad Bish Revolution

Chapter 1

Zara

The blue glow from my dual monitors bathes my face as my fingers dance across the mechanical keyboard. Lines of code scroll past, a digital waterfall I've learned to read as easily as English. My customized mechanical keyboard clicks with each keystroke - a sound more soothing than any white noise machine.

"Access denied my ass," I mutter, cracking my knuckles before diving back in. The security system I'm testing thinks it's clever, but I've seen better. Much better.

My apartment in Lower Manhattan isn't much, but the tech setup makes up for it. Two 4K monitors dominate my desk, flanked by a collection of tablets, phones, and various testing devices. The warm LED strips behind the monitors paint the white walls in a cascade of shifting colors - my own personal aurora borealis.

A notification pings. Another attempted breach on one of my client's networks. I switch screens, pulling up the live feed of the attack. Amateur hour. They're using outdated methods, leaving digital fingerprints everywhere.

"Stupid ass." I type in a few commands, setting up a honeypot that'll keep them busy while I trace their location. My custom-built PC hums quietly, processing power cranking up as it runs multiple virtual machines simultaneously.

The air conditioning kicks in, fighting against the heat from all the equipment. I reach for my water bottle, decorated with stickers from various tech conferences - reminders of speeches given and systems conquered. A strand of curly hair falls in my face, and I absently tuck it back behind my ear.

The attacker takes the bait. Their cursor moves exactly where I want it, like a mouse following the scent of cheese. I lean forward, the glow of my screens reflecting off my hazel eyes as I prepare to shut them down.

"Got you." My fingers fly across the keys, executing the trace program I wrote last week. In seconds, I'll have their location, their system specs, everything. Being the best in cybersecurity means staying ahead of the curve, and right now, I'm miles ahead.

Just as I expected, the attacker's trail goes cold—they've scurried back to whatever hole they crawled out of. I save the trace data and close that window, annoyed that someone so incompetent would even try to waste my minutes like that.. Time for what really matters.

My encrypted messaging system fills the left screen while I pull up my personal database on the right. The Black Web Collective's digital breadcrumbs scatter across my display - snippets of code, fragments of messages, IP addresses that lead nowhere. I've spent years collecting these pieces, building a puzzle without knowing the full picture.

A new message catches my eye. Someone's been sloppy - left metadata in an image file. I enhance the hex dump, my pulse quickening as I spot familiar patterns. The timestamp matches. The location data aligns.

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. There, buried in the code, is a string of numbers I'd recognize anywhere - Maya's old student ID number. The same one she used for everything, from her email to her social media accounts. The same one that went dark fourteen years ago when she vanished.

"Maya..." My voice cracks. The last photo we took together sits in a frame next to my secondary monitor - both of us at the park, ice cream dripping down our hands. Her braids were done up with those silly rainbow beads she loved. I was fifteen, she was twelve. Just kids.

The message contains more - references to an old operation, dates that line up with when she disappeared. My throat tightens as I dive deeper into the code, each new detail a knife twisting in my chest. This is the closest I've come to a real lead in months.

I start a new trace, my hands trembling slightly as I type. The memories flood back - teaching Maya how to code her first website, staying up late watching scary movies we weren't supposed to see, promising Mom I'd always look out for her.

My screens blur as tears threaten to spill. I blink them back - crying won't help Maya now. The Black Web Collective thinks they're untouchable, hiding behind their fancy encryption and dark web networks. But they slipped up. They always do, eventually.

I pull up my research folder, organized with the precision of someone who's spent over a decade hunting shadows. Fourteen years of tracking their operations, mapping their structure, documenting their patterns. The Collective isn't just another cybercrime group - they're organized, patient, methodical. They pick their targets carefully, grooming them through social media before they strike.

That's how they got to Maya. My fingers curl into fists at the memory. She was just starting to get into coding, so excited about making her first website. I'd helped her set up her accounts, taught her about passwords. But I didn't know enough then. Didn't see the warning signs when she started talking about her new "online friend" who shared her interest in programming.

"Never again." I tab through my collection of evidence - chat logs, financial transactions, shipping manifests. The Collective specializes in data theft and identity fraud, but their real money comes from human trafficking. They're smart about it too, using their tech expertise to create perfect covers for their operations. Shell companies. Fake identities. Digital breadcrumbs that lead nowhere.

That's why I became who I am. Every certification, every late night learning new security protocols, every speaking engagement at tech conferences - it's all been building toward this. I'm not just good at what I do - I'm the best. Because I had to be. Because being anything less meant letting them win.

The Collective thought they could bury their tracks, hide behind their networks of proxies and VPNs. But they didn't count on someone like me. Someone who'd spend every waking moment learning their methods, understanding their technology, finding their weaknesses. Someone who'd never stop hunting them.

I crack my knuckles and dive back into the code. Somewhere in this data dump is the thread that'll help me unravel their whole operation. And when I find it, the Black Web Collective will learn what happens when you take someone's little sister.

Hours and hours of scrolling, saving, documenting go by in a flash. The clock on my screen reads 3:47 AM. My eyes burn from staring at the monitors, but I can't stop. Not when I'm this close. The dark web forums scroll past - a cesspool of illegal activities and human misery that I've learned to navigate like a second language.

"Come on, give me something." I route my connection through another set of proxies, diving deeper into a hidden marketplace. The site's design is basic - black text on white background, like something from the early 2000s. But these simple pages hide sophisticated operations.

A keyword search brings up a new thread. My heart stops. There, in a discussion about "previous acquisitions," someone mentions Maya's name. Not directly - they use a code, but it's her. The same pattern they used in the metadata I found earlier.

"Holy shit." My hands shake as I screenshot everything, storing it in my encrypted drive. The thread links to another site, hidden behind layers of authentication. Good thing I've spent years collecting access credentials.

The next page loads painfully slow. Each second feels like an eternity as the progress bar inches forward. When it finally appears, my breath catches. It's a list of transactions from 2009 - the year Maya disappeared. And there, between entries about stolen credit card numbers and hacked databases, is another reference to her code name.

"You bastards." I cross-reference the dates with my timeline. They match perfectly - not just the day she vanished, but the weeks leading up to it. The grooming period. The careful manipulation.

My custom alert system pings - someone's accessing the same forum. I quickly mask my presence, switching to passive monitoring. Years of hunting these shadows has taught me patience. One wrong move and they'll lock everything down, destroying any chance of finding more breadcrumbs.

The new data paints a clearer picture. The Collective didn't just target Maya randomly. They chose her because of her interest in coding, used it to gain her trust. The same pattern they've repeated with other victims.

I save everything to my secure server, my mind racing with the implications. These forums aren't just history - they're active. The Collective is still using the same networks, the same infrastructure. They've gotten sloppy, comfortable in their perceived invisibility.

For the first time in fourteen years, I have solid proof of Maya's connection to the Black Web Collective. It's not just theories and hunches anymore. They took her, and now I can prove it.

My fingers tremble as I plug in the encrypted portable drive, needing a second, physical location to store this precious information. The sleek black device thrums to life, ready to receive the most valuable data I've collected in fourteen years of searching.

"Transfer initiated." The progress bar creeps forward. Each percentage point represents another piece of evidence against the monsters who stole Maya from me.

I grip the edge of my desk, steadying myself. The LED lights cast shifting shadows across my hands as I watch file after file copy over. Chat logs. Transaction records. User profiles. Everything that proves the Black Web Collective's involvement in Maya's disappearance.

"I'm going to burn your whole operation to the ground." My voice is barely a whisper, but the promise fills my chest with steel. "Every server. Every account. Every dirty little secret you think you've hidden."

The transfer completes with a soft chime. I verify the encryption, then disconnect the drive. It feels heavier than its physical weight - fourteen years of hunting, of learning, of becoming someone who could take them down, all contained in this small piece of technology.

"Maya, I swear I'm going to avenge you." I press the drive against my heart, where her photo sits in my wallet. "And when I do, the Collective won't know what hit them."