Chapter 3 - The Traitor in the Network
By 3:00 a.m., the sprawling basement server room of the Moretti estate looked like a tactical war room. Three massive monitors cast a harsh blue light over rows of server racks, while half a dozen armed enforcers stood guard at the steel doors.
I sat at the central console alongside Marco, scrolling through encrypted access logs.
"Here," I pointed to a masked IP address timestamped at 2:14 a.m. three nights ago. "The user bypassed the local firewall using an administrative override token. The token belongs to David Hayes, the lead network architect who handled the smart-home upgrade."
Adrien stood behind us, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes fixed on the glowing screen. He hadn't slept, and the tension radiating off his frame was enough to shatter glass.
"Where is Hayes?" Adrien asked quietly.
"He checked out of his apartment in the city yesterday afternoon," Marco reported, tapping rapidly on his tablet. "Flight manifest shows a one-way ticket to Geneva under an alias."
"He didn't leave the country yet," Adrien said, his tone absolute. "Private flights out of the municipal airstrip require my authorization code or a direct council sign-off. Check the local hangars."
Before Marco could execute the command, the encrypted terminal on the desk chimed with a high-pitched incoming signal. A text-based prompt blinked across the black screen:
You're looking in the wrong place, Moretti. The house isn't bugged. The family is.
I froze, my fingers hovering over the mechanical keyboard.
Adrien slammed his palm down onto the steel desk, rattling the monitors. "Trace that ping! Now!"
"It's a localized repeater," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs as I analyzed the routing path. "It's not coming from outside the estate. It's broadcasting from somewhere inside the residential wing."
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Adrien’s head snapped toward the ceiling. The terrifying reality hit us simultaneously: Hayes hadn't just planted a box in the nursery wall. He had integrated smart-device micro-chips into the children's custom monitoring bands—the very health trackers Dr. Gable insisted the triplets wear around their tiny wrists.
"Marco," Adrien growled, pulling his custom pistol from his shoulder holster with a sharp click. "Clear the entire second floor. Bring every monitor, every band, every toy to the courtyard. Burn them."
