2025-04-12 23:38:06Hilda slowly shook her head.
Her expression was sharp. Cold. Unforgiving. Freda and Clarissa saw it… and shook their heads in similar fashion. Their faces showed it all—they didn’t buy Nolan’s show. Not one bit. Evelyn saw their reactions. She turned back to Nolan with a strange look in her eyes. She stood up to her feet, brushed her gown lightly, and gave him a slow shake of the head. “No, Nolan,” she said coldly. “Not here. Not like this.” She walked past him. The music faded. The dancers paused. Even the jazz band started playing more slowly, unsure of what to do. Nolan gently grabbed her hand. His voice broke as he spoke. “Evelyn, please,” he said. “I didn’t plan all this just for attention or drama. I meant every single word. I’m not ashamed of you, and I’m not ashamed to show how much I love you. That’s all I wanted. That’s why I came here tonight. That's why I arranged for all this.” Evelyn turned to him slowly. She looked into his eyes. There was real pain in his eyes. Her eyes dropped to the cake he was still holding. She reached out and collected it carefully. She looked at the pink and white cream… the neat writing on top: PLEASE FORGIVE ME. “Hmmm…” she hummed. “Nice cake.” Nolan’s heart lifted for a second. But only for a second. Because the next moment… SPLAT!!! Evelyn smashed the cake into his face. Cream flew everywhere—on his hair, on his shirt, on his lips, even on his ears. The restaurant gasped. People’s mouths opened wide in shock. One waiter dropped a glass. Someone shouted, “Oh my God!” Nolan stood frozen. Cake spattered all over his face, slowly sliding down. He looked like a clown at a children’s party—but without the smile. Evelyn wiped her hands with a napkin. “Come on girls,” she said with her chin raised. “Let’s get out of here.” Hilda let out a small laugh. Clarissa followed, But Freda laughed the loudest. “Goodbye, Lover boy,” Freda said mockingly, blowing a fake kiss in the air. The three women walked out, their heels clicking proudly on the marble floor. Nolan just stood there. Still frozen. Still covered in cake. People whispered. Some laughed. Some felt sorry for him. He could feel every eye in the room staring at him. Some were recording. Some were smiling in pity. But inside Nolan… it felt like something had shattered. His chest felt tight. His eyes burned. His legs felt heavy like stone, but he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. All he could feel… was shame. Big. Loud. Deep shame. And maybe… a little bit of regret. Nolan was still standing in the middle of the restaurant—feeling alone, humiliated, and silent. His face dripped with pink and white cream. His lips were trembling. His hands had gone limp by his side. Then slowly, the soft sound of careful footsteps approached him. It was the head of the jazz band—a slim, polite-looking man with round glasses and a neat black bowtie. His violin hung gently from his shoulder. Behind him, the two ballet dancers came forward as well, their white attires were still glowing under the restaurant lights. “Sir,” the band leader said in a quiet voice. “We are… very sorry about what just happened.” Nolan didn’t answer. He only blinked. The man gave a sad nod. “We didn’t expect that kind of reaction,” he continued. “We thought it would be a romantic performance. Something joyful.” The dancers nodded softly, their faces were full of sympathy. Then came the part Nolan was afraid of. The violinist looked away for a moment, then reached into his suit and pulled out a folded piece of paper—a receipt. With a low, almost embarrassed voice, he said, “Uhm… here’s the balance. For the band… and the dancers. We gave you a discount, like you asked.” He held out the paper carefully, trying not to make it look awkward. Nolan stared at it. He didn’t take it yet. He couldn’t move. His pride was already in pieces—paying for this failure felt like placing a crown on his own humiliation. But he had no choice. Slowly, he took the paper from the man’s hand. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. The band leader gave a short nod, then quietly turned and walked away. The dancers followed him. Nolan looked down at the bill in his hand. His eyes were cloudy. He wiped some of the cream from his eyelid and looked at his reflection in the shiny surface of the piano nearby. He didn’t recognize himself. Covered in cake… standing alone… watched by strangers… laughed at by woman he once loved. And then… A question slowly formed in his heart. A question that cut deeper than the embarrassment. What did I do to deserve this? What crime had he committed? Was love a sin? Was showing emotions now a weakness? Why did it always end like this—for him? Why did it always feel like the universe was playing a cruel joke on him?
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FIVE MILLION REASONS TO RUN
Three days had passed since the folder appeared. Three long, restless days.Nolan hadn’t eaten much. He hadn’t slept right. His mind had been buried in code and paranoia.He had gone deeper than ever into the Blockchain market, studying every move, every shift, every whisper in the network.He watched as other hackers took Lord Atherton's offer. And he watched them vanish—silent logouts, ghost accounts, blacklisted IPs. Just... gone.But he didn’t touch the folder.He kept his promise to himself.He didn’t click.Now, as soft blue morning light poured into the small vents near the bunker ceiling, Nolan leaned back in his old office chair. The glow from the screens around him no longer felt like pressure—they just felt like light.He stretched his arms above his head, bones cracking slightly. A long sigh escaped his chest.“That’s it,” he whispered. “I’m done for today.”He saved a few final logs, closed some private browser tunnels, and powered down two of his older machines.The bunk
THE GLOWING CAGE
Right inside Nolan's secret bunker, the folder glowed on Nolan’s screen:NATIONAL FUND — PRIORITY ACCESSIt looked harmless. Just another file. But to Nolan, it was like a burning ember—bright, hot, impossible to ignore.He didn’t touch it.Not yet.His fingers, were usually fast and sure as they typed across his keyboard, now hovered in mid-air. Frozen. Hesitant.His gut—the place where his instincts usually spoke loud and clear—was quiet. Worse than quiet. It was tied in a tight, painful knot.He sat in his command room, the place he had built with his own hands. A dark, humming space filled with glowing screens and the quiet buzz of machines. Wires twisted across the floor like living things, connecting everything together. This was the heart of the Ghost Network—a secret system Nolan had built alone, line by line, byte by byte. It was his weapon, his creation, his answer to the powerful digital regime that ruled their world. Specifically the Blockchain market.Now, the regime w
A BYTE OF BAIT
The cameras were rolling.Reporters filled the press room like bees in a hive, buzzing with questions. Notepads flipped open. Camera flashes exploded. Some stood on tiptoe just to get a better view of the man who was about to speak.At the podium stood the Minister of Finance—short, sharp-eyed, and polished to perfection. His navy-blue suit looked like it had been pressed between glass. His round glasses sat perfectly on the bridge of his nose. When he opened his mouth, the room fell silent like someone had cut the power.“Today,” he said, his voice smooth but strong, “we launch the most powerful economic initiative in our nation’s digital future.”The words bounced across the walls like thunder.“The National Digital Opportunity Fund—a groundbreaking initiative worth over 300 billion dollars—is not just about money. It’s about rebuilding the future from the code up.”He let that hang for a beat.“This program will support decentralized startups, offer zero-tax crypto incentives, fu
GHOST NETWORK BREACHED
He murmured, his deep voice was barely above a whisper.“Precisely,” Nolan said, nodding slowly. “This isn’t just spying. This is a declaration. They want me to know I’m vulnerable… that they can reach me—anywhere, anytime. And this isn’t a normal hitman style, not entirely. Too… personal. Too taunting. Too haunting.”Just as the word “haunting” left Nolan’s lips, the lights in the room—and the entire mansion—flickered, then plunged them into pitch-black silence.In one fluid motion, Anya’s hand flew to the pistol holstered at her side, her stance shifting into combat readiness. Her eyes scanned every shadow, every flicker of movement in the darkness. Boris stepped forward, placing his massive frame between the door and the rest of the room. His breathing slowed, his muscles coiled like a spring. Mr. Jethro didn’t move from his seat, but his shoulders straightened, and his eyes narrowed—his body language was now more alert than ever.No one spoke. No one dared.Outside the meeting r
THE SILENCE SCREAMS
Nolan stared at the screen. We see you. The words burned into his thoughts.His hands trembled. The footage had shown him in every room—his study, his kitchen, even his bunker. That wasn’t just a security breach. That was a message.Someone had been inside. Someone skilled enough to leave no trace.The lights flickered again. He looked up fast, eyes scanning every corner. Was it a power issue—or were they watching right now?The walls felt closer. The silence louder. His lab, once a safe place, now felt like a lie.He had swept his chamber, his lab and his balcony. He even asked some of the enforcers within his mansion to scan the area countless times. Nothing. No hidden devices, no signs of entry. And yet, the chip had proof. Clean, perfect video. From impossible angles.How did they do it? How long had they been there?He felt cold. Not from fear—but from the truth hitting him hard: he wasn’t alone. He hadn’t been for a while.This was more than spying. It was control.Nolan clenche
WE SEE YOU
Finally, with a deep breath, Nolan carefully lifted the box. It was surprisingly light, almost empty. He brought it inside, placing it gently on a clean, white cloth on his desk. He used a tiny, specialized pry tool to unseal the edges. The lid lifted with a soft click, revealing its contents. There was only one thing inside: a single, small, black data chip. It looked like a standard memory chip, but Nolan knew better than to trust appearances. This was clearly encrypted, likely with a level of security that would stump anyone else. But not him.He picked up the chip, feeling its cool, smooth surface against his gloved fingers. His mind raced. "If they wanted me dead," he thought, "I’d already be dead." This wasn't about killing him. This was about something else. A message. A warning. A declaration. But from whom? Elias Thorne? The Phantom Syndicate? Or someone else entirely? The questions swirled in his mind, each one leading to another dead end. Yet, there was a strange s
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