The city sleeps.

  But I don’t.

  My fingers move across the keyboard, faster than thought, code unraveling before my eyes. The low hum of the machines pulses around me, cooling fans gently purring behind me as the screens glow in the darkness.

  The air in my office is sharp with concentration — the quiet intensity of a woman alone in a world that can’t touch her.

  This room, with its walls of steel and secrets, is all mine.

  The hum of the servers weaves into the soft whir of the air conditioner, a rhythm I’ve come to know better than my own heartbeat.

  The only sound I trust. The only sound I need.

  This office isn’t just a workspace.

  It’s my battlefield.

  The walls are lined with hidden threat detection systems, every wire tucked neatly out of view, but ready to bite.

  I don’t need the world outside.

  I don’t need anything beyond the quiet hum of this space — my sanctuary.

  There’s no need to check my phone. No need to refresh or call or post.

  They’ll come to me when they need me. They always do.

  I never chase. That’s not how this works.

  The world’s problems are my opportunities, and they know exactly where to find me when things fall apart.

  They never say my name.

  They never need to.

  I don’t advertise. I don’t bid for jobs. I don’t network.

  If you’re good enough, the right people find you.

  And they find me — through buried channels, forgotten servers, ghost sites only the patient — or the desperate — dare to reach.

  Each lead coded in a language most people will never read.

  That’s the game.

  And I’m better at it than anyone else.

  On my main screen, a message pulses — heavily encrypted, anonymous, dirty. Just how I like it.

  I lean in, fingers poised above the keyboard, feeling that familiar itch at the base of my skull — the thrill of the hunt.

  I tap a few keys and the message expands, cascading numbers and letters.

  A name appears.

  A deal is struck.

  High risk. High reward.

  Just the way I like it.

  I don’t smoke in here. This space demands precision. Focus.

  The kind that doesn’t mix well with the lazy drag of THC.

  But I know when it’s time to shift gears.

  My body is already craving the warmth of the Cloud Room.

  I shut my laptop and cradle it under my arm like a loaded weapon. It goes wherever I go. I don’t trust clouds I didn’t build myself.

  The hall is quiet as I slip out.

  My bare feet sink into the plush rug lining the corridor.

  I pass by the softly lit library, the empty music room, the lounge still carrying traces of sandalwood and cinnamon.

  But I don’t stop.

  The Cloud Room sits tucked at the far end of the duplex — a place stitched from smoke and code, built just for me.

  The scent hits first — earthy, thick, familiar.

  My stash is the good kind — imported, organic, clean.

  I sink into the velvety armchair by the open window, setting my laptop back on my thighs.

  The lighter clicks.

  The joint burns.

  I inhale deeply, letting the smoke fill my lungs, letting it wrap around my nerves, easing the tight coil in my chest.

  The glow of the screen paints my face in electric blue.

  Outside, the city holds its breath.

  Inside, I’m flying through the code again, slower now, more deliberate.

  No rush.

  They can wait.

  They always do.

  I stretch my legs out across the ottoman, the hem of my Maison Margiela lounge set brushing my ankle — soft, effortless.

  Simple, neutral tones. Loose but intentional.

  I don’t dress to impress. I dress to fit the moment.

  Today’s vibe: effortless edge.

  Tomorrow might be Rick Owens.

  Or something snagged from a Target limited collab — if it speaks to me, it’s mine.

  Hours drip away.

  The laptop warms against my thighs.

  The smoke curls above me in lazy halos.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The job?

  Simple.

  Trace funds. Leak a location. Send a signal.

  And disappear.

  I close the file.

  Let them sweat.

  ?

  A few hours later

  The joint is nearly gone.

  The Cloud Room is thick with the ghost of smoke and fading neon glow.

  I rise when the first blush of light paints the horizon.

  I’m not tired.

  Just…empty.

  The kind of hollow that doesn’t come from exhaustion, but something heavier.

  A quiet knowing.

  A life like this doesn’t break you all at once.

  It chips at you — one encrypted message at a time.

  I need something.

  Something to remind me that I’m still human.

  ?

  Her fingers graze the soft leather of the chair in the dimly lit room, the air thick with the smell of burning wood and mint. She had never wanted to be noticed. But in high school, everything changed. It was supposed to be a place of escape. A place where she could get away from the shadow of loss and the gnawing emptiness that clung to her. But nothing in life comes easily.

  She’d been a quiet girl, observant, keeping to the edges of the crowds. No one had cared about her presence, and that was the way she liked it. But there were days when the weight of everything crushed her. When even the silence felt too loud.

  It wasn’t long before she discovered that certain things helped silence the noise. The sharp inhale of smoke, the slow burn of it in her lungs. The haze that followed, wrapping around her mind, turning the world soft and dull. It made everything quieter. More manageable.

  Her acquaintances at school didn’t get it. They never asked why she smoked. They didn’t need to. They weren’t the ones who had to deal with the aftermath of her father’s death. They didn’t know what it was like to be an orphan, to have no one but yourself to rely on.

  But the high? It didn’t last. The need for control was always there, gnawing at her. She started hacking — as a way to distract herself. As a way to feel in control when everything else seemed so far out of her grasp. At first, it was just a game. The thrill of breaking into systems, bypassing firewalls, finding vulnerabilities.

  It was all she needed. A way to feed the hunger. To take back control.

  But that hunger grew. She needed more.

  With each passing year, she became more absorbed in the world of hacking. It was a way to escape, yes, but also a way to prove something — to herself, mostly. She didn’t need anyone’s help. She didn’t need anything. She was the one pulling the strings now.

  The world of high school seemed so small compared to the one she created online. Her eyes, once distant, now sparkled with the fire of determination. No more did she hide in the background. No more did she let people assume she was weak.

  And yet, that darkness, that hunger — it lingered. Quiet. Constant. Waiting.

  She wasn’t alone anymore, though. She didn’t have to be. Not in this world.

  ?

  The clicking of her keyboard echoes softly in the quiet room.

  I drift to the kitchen on autopilot, the house creaking softly under my bare feet.

  The kitchen is sleek but lived-in: polished marble counters, brass fittings, the lingering scent of last night’s takeaway.

  I pull ingredients from the fridge without thinking — shredded chicken, tortillas, cheese, peppers.

  A rhythm builds in my movements — slice, toss, sizzle.

  The quesadillas hiss and crisp in the pan, the scent of melting cheese and spices filling the space, making my stomach growl.

  The crackle of the tortillas reminds me that life can still feel… real.

  While the quesadillas brown, I move to the blender, dropping in scoops of vanilla ice cream, a generous splash of milk, a dash of cinnamon.

  The blender roars to life, loud and jarring against the quiet morning.

  It feels good.

  Messy.

  Alive.

  I plate the food neatly — two golden quesadillas folded over a steaming heap of melted goodness — and pour the milkshake into a chilled glass.

  I eat perched at the kitchen island, savoring every bite.

  Not because I’m starving.

  Because I’m still here.

  Still human.

  Still something more than code and smoke.

  For now.

  ?

  Later, the clock ticks past 4 AM. The day is starting to creep into the edges of the night, but I’m not yet ready to fall asleep.

  I wander into my bedroom, shedding the haze of the Cloud Room as I do. My thoughts are sharper now, disconnected from the intoxicating buzz of the smoke.

  The bed is empty. It always is.

  I slide under the covers, pulling them up to my chin. My room is quiet, a soft hum of the night outside filtering through the walls. The city is still alive in the distance, but I’ve always preferred the silence of the night.

  I close my eyes, but the space beside me lingers. It’s never filled. And somehow, that emptiness is the most familiar thing in my life.

  I don’t need anyone, I remind myself.