Light seeped through the window sill, falling in a thin line across my desk. My fingers hammered the keyboard, faster and faster, the hum of the aircon punctuated by the occasional click and groan of my chair. I stretched my neck, trying to loosen the tension coiling in my shoulders.
The last line of code blinked. It cracked. Finally.
As a white hat hacker—and a bored teenager—I had a habit of sticking my nose where it didn't belong. Files like this usually ended the same way: some idiot hiding porn behind layers of encryption for laughs. Sometimes puzzles, sometimes just flexing their skills. Mostly harmless. Usually.
"Hehe. Finally decoded," I muttered under my breath. "Basic as hell. Still gave me a headache."
I opened the folder. Videos. Lots of them.
I clicked one without thinking. For half a second, I relaxed. Then… something was off.
The angles were wrong. The camera avoided faces too carefully. Breathing didn't sound fake—it was tense, scared, real. My stomach churned.
I scrubbed through the clip slowly, trying to convince myself I was imagining things.
"This isn't… wait. What the fuck?"
It wasn't porn.
It was SA.
My hands froze. My heart kicked in, fast and hard. That explained the encryption. That explained why cracking it felt harder than it should have. Whoever made this didn't want it seen. They didn't want witnesses.
I checked the rest. Every file was worse. A few faces were familiar. In others, background details gave them away: a peeling election poster on one wall, rusted wire bars on a window, cheap paint that screamed lower junction. Others were cleaner—mid-city apartments, high-class condos.
Different places. Same pattern. Same… horror.
I swallowed, dry-mouthed. "Fuck… I gotta tell the cops," I whispered.
Then the cold reality hit me. No. I couldn't.
Accessing private files is illegal. Even for a white hat. Especially for one like me. Jail was one risk. The other risk—meeting the guys in these videos face-to-face—was worse. People like that don't like witnesses.
I leaned back in my chair, my back pressed against the wall, chest heaving. My fingers hovered over the keyboard like they belonged to someone else. My eyes darted over the folder again.
I had to gather evidence first. Carefully. No slip-ups.
Every detail mattered. Posters, windows, paint. Faces. Breathing. Timing. Who entered, who left. Every frame had a story. Every frame could be proof.
And my IP… traceable. I was a sitting target if anyone noticed.
I opened a blank document and began typing notes, careful to label nothing identifying. Everything was coded: locations, times, descriptions. A methodical log. Step one: catalog what I could without touching the actual files more than necessary.
Minutes passed. My hands shook slightly. The glow of the monitor reflected in my wide eyes. I muttered to myself:
"I'm just a kid. I don't have weapons. I don't have backup. I have… this."
My tools. My brain. My code.
I checked the first clip again. Small details jumped out now—the reflection of a window in the corner, a shadow on the wall, the way a hand lingered on a doorframe. Clues. Pieces. Connections.
I exhaled slowly. Decision solidifying in my chest. I wasn't closing this folder. Not anymore.
No matter what it took, no matter what I risked… I had to see this through.