Didn't You Want Me?

Chapter 1

Reese

Midnight clings to my apartment windows like a dark promise—cool, silent, absolute. Perfect. I thrive in the hush, in the solitude that lets me slip into a world where I control every threat and every outcome. My world.

I live in a renovated factory loft on the edge of downtown Baltimore. The place has character: exposed brick walls, wide industrial windows, and a high, unfinished ceiling crisscrossed by steel beams. By day, the space floods with sunlight, but by night, it becomes a cavern of shadows and quiet that I find comforting. The distant hum of traffic provides a low, constant thrum, broken only by the occasional wail of sirens that never quite lets you forget you’re in a city grappling with its own darkness.

I don’t mind the reminders. I grow up amid noise—shouting neighbors, squealing tires, street music that pulses at all hours. It’s the stillness of the after-midnight hour that gives me clarity. And right now, as I settle into my gaming rig, that clarity is exactly what I need.

I run a palm over my VR headset—a custom piece of hardware I build with salvaged parts and some bleeding-edge modules I quietly “borrow” from one of my early projects. It’s sleek, matte black, with no visible logos. I never allow corporate branding on my personal gear. I answer to no one but myself here.

Possibly tens of thousands of spectators are online to watch the global VR championship. They’re all about to witness RedSpectre in action, though none of them has any idea who’s really behind the avatar. That’s part of my skill: anonymity. No one expects a lean, thirty-one-year-old Black woman with an ex-military background to be the deadliest sniper in the VR tournament scene. Not in a world so steeped in machismo that even the high-skill female gamers are often ridiculed or scrutinized. That’s fine with me; I like being underestimated.

A small LED strip across my multi-monitor setup glows faintly. The screens display the final countdown before the match. Five... four... three... My heart gives a single, measured beat, my focus sliding into place as naturally as breathing.

Once the game’s interface loads, the environment glimmers around my avatar. A neon-lit dystopian cityscape stretches on one side, a futuristic desert compound flickers on the other. The developers outdo themselves with the final championship map: tall, monolithic buildings cast angular shadows over dusty terrain, while luminous billboards advertise fictional future products that lend a surreal, cyberpunk vibe to the battlefield.

My avatar, RedSpectre, spawns atop a half-collapsed skyscraper, sniper rifle balanced with lethal grace. I scan the environment quickly, appreciating the vantage point. In the periphery of my display, the crowd chat spikes with excitement. A comment feed scrolls by faster than I can read, but I catch glimpses:

“RedSpectre’s unstoppable!”
“Is it true he never misses?”
“Who is this guy?”

“They always say ‘guy,’” I mutter under my breath, my voice low and steady. It’s not anger I feel—more like satisfaction, a private thrill at how little they know about me.

I lift my gaze to the top corner of my HUD, where my custom coding overlay scrolls constant data: system usage, ping rates, security alerts. Nothing out of the ordinary—yet. The game announcer’s voice booms through my headphones, though I keep it dialed low enough not to distract me. I tune in just long enough to hear him introduce the final championship match and mention RedSpectre as the favorite to win.

With a slow, controlled inhale, I center myself.
Ready.

A single pull of my digital trigger, and the match begins in earnest. My first shot hits a rival sniper perched across the map before they can even see me. The crowd roars in the background, the chat feed exploding. I pivot, take out another enemy scaling a distant skyscraper. My kill count rises on my screen.

Adrenaline pools in my veins, but it isn’t nerves. It’s pure focus, a razor-sharp awareness of everything around me. Each bullet feels like an extension of my skill, each enemy kill a small piece of perfection. I navigate the VR city with a mixture of stealth and boldness, never lingering in one spot long enough to become a target. I know the map’s hidden alleys, sniper nests, and infiltration paths better than I know the layout of my own apartment.

“Reese,” I remind myself in a half-whisper, “you’ve got this.” I need no pep talk. Just the grounding sense of my own name to hold me in reality.

After eliminating a third opponent, I switch to an infiltration subroutine I spend weeks coding. It allows my avatar to melt into the environment, hijacking the simulation’s back-end to create a hidden corridor. The game’s devs constantly try to patch my methods, but I always stay a step ahead. The crowd might not realize what I’m doing, but those with a good eye see a glitchy ripple in the city’s holographic barriers.

My scoreboard flashes with another kill. My lips curve into a smug grin, though I temper the emotion. Complacency leads to mistakes, and mistakes lead to defeat. I grow up in East Baltimore, where mistakes can cost more than a game. They can cost you your life.

I pause behind a digital crate to assess the field. Teams scatter, alliances form and break in real time. I see two players teaming up to flush me out of my sniper nest. Clever, but not nearly clever enough.

In my peripheral vision, the code stream scrolls—a comfort, a friend. It’s the language I learn to speak long before I learn the intricacies of social cues. For me, code is clarity, logic, an escape from the messy unpredictability of the real world. Machines and numbers never lie. They either work, or they fail.

That’s when a strange flicker jolts the data feed. My code jumps just a fraction of a second and the lines of text that are so familiar seem to warp, as if an invisible hand reaches in and twists them.

What the hell is that?

I crouch lower in the game, letting an enemy sniper’s shot whistle harmlessly past my avatar’s shoulder. My actual heartbeat kicks up, a subtle warning that something is off. I stare at the scrolling text. Another flicker. A surge in data usage. Could it be a glitch on the tournament servers?

But no, the pattern feels deliberate, like a coded attack. A small line of malicious code tries to slip past my usual defenses. It takes a lot of nerve—and skill to try hacking a high-stakes VR championship. It takes even more to go after RedSpectre’s rig.

“Stay focused,” I hiss, flicking my scope to the enemy. I tag them with a clean headshot and feel a surge of satisfaction as the kill is confirmed. But my triumph is short-lived. The flicker in the system repeats, and now my entire screen stutters for a heartbeat.

No. No. This isn’t right. My rig is bulletproof—metaphorically speaking, of course. I build custom firewalls layered like an onion, each one more complex than the last. Nobody should be able to slip into my code so easily.

I glance at the scoreboard. I’m still on top, but it doesn’t matter. My mind is already whirling, searching for the source of the intrusion. I quickly open a private console line, typing a few rapid-fire commands to scan for suspicious processes. A partial match pops up then disappears before I can lock onto it.

Across the cityscape, the match clock ticks down. Barely thirty seconds left. Another bullet whizzes by in the game, snapping me back into focus. I jerk my avatar behind a digital barricade, my chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. This is a final championship, and I’m within reach of the ultimate win. Yet the usual bulletproof calm inside me is replaced by a slow, creeping violation, as if a stranger has stepped into my bedroom uninvited and rummaged through my most private things.

The match is almost over. I force myself to breathe. I might not know exactly who’s trying to hack me, but I won’t let them see me sweat. “Not now,” I whisper, leveling my sniper scope on the last remaining target. “I don’t lose.”

One shot. A perfect kill. The scoreboard locks me in as the undisputed champion. Neon confetti rains down in-game, and triumphant music thunders in my headset. Normally, I relish this moment: top of the ladder, best in the world—RedSpectre unstoppable. But my heart pounds too hard. The data feed has gone still, as though the intruder was never there. That alone is suspicious.

I tear off my VR headset and blink away the swirl of color. A faint sheen of sweat dampens my forehead, and I wipe it with the back of my hand. My monitors still display the game’s results, the chat feed spiraling in wild celebration. Thousands of viewers chanting RedSpectre’s name. Or the name they associate with the unstoppable sniper they assume is a cocky man behind the screen.

I lean forward, crossing my arms on the desk. “Who are you?” I mutter, staring at lines of code that look normal but feel wrong. There’s no sign of the malicious presence now. A typical hack leaves traces—junk data, partial infiltration logs, or something. This one is clean, like a scalpel slice. That tells me the assailant isn’t just a random gamer with a vendetta.

I try to steady my breathing. Next to my desk sits a half-empty mug of black coffee, gone cold hours ago. I consider taking a sip but decide against it, my stomach too tense for caffeine. Instead, I tap a quick series of commands, pulling up my custom security suite. The software beeps as it initiates a deeper trace, scanning for Trojan files or backdoors.

While the scan runs, my gaze drifts across my loft. My bed, unmade but still neat enough that it betrays the military corners I once learn to fold with. A battered punching bag in the corner, with gloves tossed beside it. A half-finished circuit board on my workbench, next to my actual job’s top-secret hardware mockups. To the world, I’m an unassuming cybersecurity consultant with a knack for advanced encryption and AI. In reality, I’m embedded in some of the most classified digital warfare systems on the planet. That’s the normal me. RedSpectre? She’s the unstoppable ghost I become at night.

If someone dares breach my system, it likely isn’t just a casual troll. I wonder if it has anything to do with my day job. I make a fair number of enemies in government circles, men who hate being outsmarted by a woman who quietly outperforms them at every turn. My direct supervisor likes me just fine. Only because I get results—but the rest? Hard to say.

A beep signals that my trace program is complete. I scan the results. Nothing. No infiltration logs, no suspicious DNS addresses, no footprints. My firewall reads as pristine. Yet I see that spike in data usage with my own eyes.

My chest constricts with anger. Whoever this is, they’re skilled enough to slip in and out without leaving a trail. That takes top-tier hacking, or connections to advanced systems that overshadow even my homemade rig. The words “domestic military” or “private black-ops” float through my mind, but I force myself to push them aside. Jumping to extremes without proof isn’t my style.

One truth crystallizes in my mind: whoever tests my defenses might strike again. This has the distinct whiff of a test run. A way to see how far they can get under the chaos of a crowded tournament. If so, I’m their prime target. I don’t know whether to be flattered or furious. Probably both.

I close the scanning app and lean back in my chair. My reflection stares back at me from the dark monitor: high cheekbones, tired eyes, and a short, tapered afro that I braid tight earlier in the evening to keep out of my face. The faint burn scars on my hands from years of circuit-board modifications are visible in the soft glow of the LED. Each mark reminds me of the hours, the blood, the sweat I pour into building a life free of vulnerability.

“Guess we’re not as untouchable as we thought, huh?” I say under my breath. The idea stings my pride, but also lights a spark of determination in my gut. If they want to come after RedSpectre, they’d better be ready for a war.

With a sweep of my gaze, I confirm the loft is still locked down. Old habits die hard: my door has triple locks, and my windows are installed with bullet-resistant glass. Maybe it’s paranoia, but it serves me well so far. A woman in my position has the right to be cautious.

A text notification lights up my phone, which lies screen-down on the edge of the desk. I flip it over. It’s my buddy from the VR dev team, a guy named Caleb who occasionally gives me behind-the-scenes tips on map updates. The message reads:

“Holy hell, that was insane! Another championship in the bag, huh? Congrats—everyone’s talking about RedSpectre’s perfect kills. Gonna see you at the after-party?”

I exhale. An after-party. Right. The tournament’s sponsors always throw a big event in some glitzy downtown venue. Free drinks, free hype, and a chance to rub elbows with other top players. No one would expect me there, because no one really knows who I am—and that’s how I like it. But Caleb always tries to coax me out, telling me I deserve the spotlight.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure. I have this urge to walk among them incognito, just to hear people brag or complain about the unstoppable RedSpectre. The rest of me wants to stay home and figure out who tries to breach my code. That second urge wins out quickly.

I type a short reply:

“Not tonight. Got something to handle. Enjoy for me.”

Setting the phone aside, I pull up an advanced packet sniffer, intending to re-examine the tournament’s data feed from the final minutes. If I can find even the smallest clue—a hidden IP fragment, a suspicious protocol that might lead me closer to the intruder.

Minutes tick by as I sift through thousands of lines of cryptic data. Adrenaline still hums under my skin, an echo of the match combined with the new sense of danger. My breathing slows as my mind falls into a familiar pattern of scanning, analyzing, searching. This is how I’ve always been—looking for the ghost in the machine, the anomaly that tells me something bigger is happening beneath the surface.

But no matter how I check the logs, everything looks... normal. A perfect system, which only heightens my suspicion. There’s no such thing as perfect in the wild world of digital networks.

“Dammit,” I murmur, letting my shoulders slump in frustration. I’m not used to losing control. Whether in VR or the real world, I pride myself on anticipating every scenario. Yet I don’t anticipate this, and I hate it.

Eventually, I save the logs, intending to try a new angle tomorrow. The tournament might be over for everyone else, but for me, a larger battle has just begun. I’ll find whoever does this. I’ll tear apart their code line by line if I have to. Because if someone is bold enough to slice into RedSpectre’s rig, they’ll keep coming.

I rise from my chair and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my lower back. My gear—headset, gloves, specialized sensors lies scattered on the desk like tools of a trade I hone to lethal precision. The VR environment is meant to simulate warfare, but this intrusion reminds me just how easily digital threats can bleed into the real world.

Crossing to the kitchenette, I pour a glass of water, gulping it down in four quick swallows. I catch my reflection in the dark window above the sink: calm, centered, a little worn at the edges. The pale glow of distant city lights backlights me, but my own gaze is clear. No fear. Just cold, quiet anger and a fierce resolve.

I set the glass down. “Reese Monroe,” I tell my reflection softly. “You win tonight, but the real fight’s starting now.”

It feels strange, addressing myself by name. I rarely say it out loud, a habit from years of letting RedSpectre speak for me. But in this moment, it grounds me. Reminds me that behind every unstoppable avatar is a woman, a mind, a heartbeat—someone who refuses to be used or threatened.

Snatching my phone from the desk, I scan the news headlines, half-expecting to see something about the championship. But the feed is mostly rehashes of political talk, local crime stats, and a smattering of eSports chatter. I lock the screen, frustration flickering anew. The story of the hack likely won’t be in the mainstream news. If it surfaces, it’ll be on specialized forums or underworld chatter boards.

Enough. I need rest if I’m going to tackle this properly tomorrow. But sleep feels like a distant notion, especially when every muscle in my body still coils with tension. I grab my battered boxing gloves from the corner and slide my hands into them, then face the punching bag that hangs from a sturdy metal support in the loft’s rafters.

I plant my feet and fire a few jabs. The impact reverberates through my arms, a tangible reminder that I’m flesh and bone in a world that’s far too often intangible code. Each strike steadies me, focusing the leftover adrenaline.

“Not so tough when I can see you,” I mutter, picturing the intangible hacker. Another series of blows, each one sharper than the last. Sweat forms on my temple, dripping down my cheek.

By the time I’m done, I’m breathing hard, a sheen of sweat coating my skin. My mind feels clearer, frustration burned off by the physical exertion. I peel off the gloves and set them aside. The path from the punching bag to my bed is short but feels like a mile as the tension in my muscles finally gives way to exhaustion.

I pause once more by my desk, verifying that my system is locked down. No more flickers on the monitor, at least. Just the final scoreboard from the tournament, proclaiming RedSpectre as champion. But the sense of victory is hollow now.

The malicious echo of the glitch still lingers in my thoughts. I know with dead certainty that someone tries to break through my defenses. And if they get even a fraction of a step inside, it means they can try again—maybe when I least expect it.

I stare at the scoreboard for a moment longer, then switch everything off. Darkness returns to the loft, broken only by the pale glow of city lights outside. I slip out of my sweaty T-shirt, change into loose sleeping shorts and a worn tank top, then flip back the covers of my bed. The mattress is cool against my skin as I lie down, forcing my mind to slow.

Tomorrow, I’ll do a deeper dive, run more scans, maybe ping some contacts who owe me favors in the cybersecurity world. I have no shortage of resources, thanks to the connections I build in the hush-hush corridors of military technology. But for now, all I can do is wrap myself in the midnight silence and try to let go.

I close my eyes, though sleep won’t come easy. Instead, I play mental tapes of the VR infiltration—each kill, each flawless shot, replaying the final seconds before that flicker of sabotage. I almost feel the intruder’s breath on my neck, intangible but unsettling.

You want to come after me? I think. Then be ready for the fight of your life.

Eventually, the hum of traffic lulls me into a fitful doze. And in the space between waking and dreaming, I feel the edges of fear brushing against the bedrock of my resolve. Fear that this is no random hack. Fear that maybe I make the wrong enemies in my line of work, and now they’re coming for me under the banner of VR warfare.

But beneath that fear is something stronger: my unwavering conviction that RedSpectre never loses—neither does Reese Monroe. If they think they can break me, they clearly don’t know what kind of woman they’re up against.

And if they push too far, they’ll learn the hard way.