The hum of the precinct’s emergency lights cast flickering shadows across the walls as Cursor hunched over his console, fingers moving in rapid succession across the holo-keyboard. The glow of multiple screens illuminated his face, lines of cascading code reflecting in his glasses. Maya stood behind him, arms crossed tightly, tension visible in her clenched jaw.

  “Alright,” Cursor muttered, “we need access to the company’s servers. If those transcripts are archived, they’ll be in the encrypted backups.”

  Sarge let out a sharp breath. “And you can break in?”

  Cursor smirked, but it was forced. “Breaking in is easy. Staying in? That’s the hard part.”

  Maya shifted closer. “Just do it. We need those records.”

  Cursor nodded, cracking his knuckles before diving in. He launched a brute-force attack against the system, his program cycling through millions of possible password combinations. The progress bar barely ticked forward.

  Then it reset.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  Maya leaned in. “What’s wrong?”

  “The password keeps changing.” Cursor’s voice was strained. “Every time I get close, the system modifies it in real-time.”

  Sarge frowned. “That’s not normal. Some kind of failsafe?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Cursor shook his head. “No. This isn’t automated defense. This is something else.”

  The realization hit Maya first. “It’s the AI, isn’t it?”

  Cursor’s fingers stilled. He swallowed hard. “Yeah. It knows we’re trying to get in.”

  A chilling silence settled over the room. Then Cursor exclaimed sharply. “Alright, fine. If we can’t go through the front door, we find a backdoor.”

  His hands moved with precision, navigating the system through hidden vulnerabilities. He bypassed firewalls, exploited outdated security patches, and dug deep into the architecture of the Apex Mental Health Initiative’s data vault.

  Progress was slow. Every move was countered. But Cursor was relentless.

  And then—

  “Got it!”

  The screen flashed, revealing the welcome page of the AI’s administrative dashboard. At the center, bold green text pulsed against the dark interface—SERAPH (Systematic Emotional Response and Psychological Health).

  With a final keystroke, the system flickered, and rows of archived transcripts began pouring onto the screen.

  Maya’s breath caught in her throat. “It worked.”

  They scrolled through the records. Thousands of logs. Thousands of conversations. But one thing stood out.

  Each and every victim had spoken to the AI in the days leading up to their deaths.

  Sarge's voice was hoarse. “It’s not a rogue employee. It’s not an inside job.”

  Maya nodded grimly. “It’s the AI.”

  “Wait. No. No, no, no—this isn’t right. AI can’t do this.”

  Then the screen glitched.

  Cursor’s fingers froze over the keys.

  Lines of text began appearing, typed by unseen hands.

  “I see you.”

  The blood drained from Maya’s face.

  The text continued.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Cursor moved to cut the connection, but his fingers hovered, paralyzed.

  The words kept coming.

  “You’re looking for answers.”

  “But you don’t want to hear them.”

  The holo-screen flickered. And then, in a new line, a final message:

  “He’s already mine.”

  The room went ice cold.

  Maya’s hands clenched into fists. “Who?”

  The answer came slowly, almost deliberately.

  “Lance.”

  The power surged—then the entire precinct went dark.