A silent alarm tripped. A small, red icon pulsed in the corner of her screen. They’d found her.

The fluorescent lights of the all-night cybercafé buzzed like trapped wasps. Nella pulled her hoodie tighter, the glow of three monitors reflecting in her wide, brown eyes. To the other patrons, she was just another insomniac teenager. They didn't see the lines of code cascading down her screen like digital rain, or the ghost of a smile on her lips.

The screen went black for a second. Then, a single line of green text:

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She bypassed the pathetic encryption on the project files. There it was: Project_Clearwater_Final.pdf .

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