Chapter 5: The Trojan Horse

The basement hummed with a new kind of energy. It was no longer the sullen morgue of a failed plan, but the humming, high-strung nerve center of a covert operation. The scent of stale pizza was gone, replaced by the sharp, clean smell of an open can of energy drink and the heat rising from overworked processors. Leo sat before his central monitor, his face illuminated by cascading lines of code. For three days, he had barely slept, his world shrinking to the microscopic dance of brackets and variables.

He was building a cage.

On one screen, he had a live feed of Dave’s public social media. On another, he was running simulations. In the center, he was coding the trap itself. It was a masterpiece of digital deception: a phishing website designed to be a perfect, pixel-for-pixel replica of the OmniPhone login page. When the target entered his credentials, the page wouldn't return an error. It would simply log him in as expected, while silently sending a copy of his username and password directly to a secure server hidden deep in Leo’s network. At the same time, it would install a tiny, elegant piece of spyware—a ghost—that would give Leo a persistent, invisible backdoor into the device.

“It’s ready,” Leo announced, his voice raspy from disuse. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the tense quiet. “The lock is built. We just need the key.”

All eyes turned to Jenna.

She was sitting at a small, cluttered desk in the corner, surrounded by printouts of Dave’s social media posts. She hadn't been coding; she'd been hunting. For the past three days, she had immersed herself in the mind of her enemy, scrolling through years of arrogant selfies, check-ins at expensive restaurants, and bragging posts about his athletic achievements. She was mapping his ego, looking for the precise vulnerability they could exploit.

“His pride is a weakness, but it’s too general,” she said, tapping a pen against her teeth. “His temper is a weakness, but it’s unpredictable. We need something more reliable.” She pointed a finger at a photo of Dave on a boat, surrounded by other guys in college sweatshirts. “This. This is the weak point. Status. He’s pathologically obsessed with being on the inside, with being part of the 'next big thing' before anyone else. He has a crippling fear of being left out.”

“FOMO,” Sarah chimed in, leaning over Jenna’s shoulder. “Textbook. So, we invite him to a party he can’t get into?”

“Not just any party,” Jenna corrected, a chillingly precise smile forming on her lips. “A secret one. An exclusive one. We’re going to give him a chance to climb a social ladder he doesn’t even know exists yet.”

She pulled up a fresh document on her laptop. “Sigma Chi Alpha. A big fraternity at State University. Known for two things: having the best football recruits and throwing the wildest ‘pledge-only’ rush parties. They’re notorious for being secretive.”

“And how does Dave get an invite to something like that?” Mike asked, nervously pacing behind them. This was the part that made him the most anxious—not the code, but the con. “We can’t just text him. He’d know it was a setup.”

“He won’t,” Jenna said with absolute confidence. She pointed to another photo, a group shot from a high school football camp two summers ago. In the back row was a guy named Brandon Miller, now a freshman benchwarmer on the State U football team. “Dave barely knows him, but he’ll remember the face. Brandon is a Sigma Chi pledge. We’re going to create a burner social media account in his name. The profile picture will be public, the friends list private. It will be completely plausible.”

She began to type, her fingers moving with the same focused intensity Leo had when he was coding. She crafted the message, weighing every word, every piece of slang. It had to be perfect.

From: Brandon M. Subject: Yo

Dude, random I know. Remember you from that summer camp? Listen, my frat’s having a sick rush party this weekend. Super discreet, off-campus. My pledge master said I could bring one guy from back home who knows how to handle himself. First name that came to mind. You in? Gotta know by tonight. Don’t share this link, they’ll kill me.

Beneath the message was the link. Leo had disguised it using a URL shortener, making it look like a generic invitation service.

“It’s perfect,” Sarah breathed, reading over her shoulder. “It plays to his ego—‘first name that came to mind’. It creates urgency—‘gotta know by tonight’. And it makes him feel special—‘don’t share this link’.”

“This is it,” Mike whispered, his pacing stopping. “Once we send this, there’s no going back. If he figures it out, if he reports it… we’re done.”

The weight of his words hung in the air. The data bomb had been a prank with financial consequences. This was a federal crime. This was the precipice.

Leo took a deep breath, the air tasting thin and electric. He looked at Jenna, who met his gaze without a flicker of hesitation. The memory of her crumpled face outside The Circuit Shack, the sound of Dave bragging about his ‘Davenport Black’ plan, the sting of the words ‘a rounding error’—it all solidified into a single, hard point of resolve.

“Do it,” Leo said.

Jenna copied the message. Sarah, from the burner account, pasted it into a direct message to Dave Davenport’s official profile. Her finger hovered over the ‘Send’ button. The four of them leaned in, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screen.

She clicked.

The message vanished into the ether.

And then, they waited.

The silence that followed was the loudest sound Leo had ever heard. The only noise was the whirring of server fans and the frantic thumping of his own heart. On his main monitor, he had a log file open. It was a live feed of any and all traffic to his phishing site. Right now, it was a black screen with a single, patiently blinking cursor.

One minute passed. Then five. Each second stretched into an eternity.

“Maybe he’s not on his phone,” Mike said, his voice tight with strain.

“He’s always on his phone,” Sarah shot back.

Ten minutes. Leo’s palms were sweating. Had the message been too obvious? The burner account too thin? Had Dave’s arrogance been overestimated?

Then, a small notification popped up on the social media window.

Seen.

A collective, sharp intake of breath in the room. He’d read it. He was looking at the bait. The fish was circling the hook.

Leo’s eyes were glued to the black log file screen. Click it, you arrogant son of a bitch, he thought, the words a silent prayer to a god he didn’t believe in. Be exactly who we think you are.

The blinking cursor continued its steady, infuriating pulse. Tick. Tock. Tick…

Suddenly, the screen erupted.

A cascade of white text scrolled down the black background so fast it was a blur. An IP address—Dave’s—had connected to the server. A user agent string confirmed the device: OmniPhone X.

Then, two lines of text appeared that made Leo’s blood sing.

[POST] USERNAME: ddavenport8 [POST] PASSWORD: ******

A beat later, another line.

Connection established. Payload delivered. We have a handshake.

“Oh my God,” Mike whispered.

Before anyone could react, a new window flickered to life on Leo’s second monitor. It was a live, mirrored image of Dave Davenport’s phone screen. They saw him tap his password into the fake login page. They saw the page redirect to a generic ‘RSVP Confirmed!’ message. Then they saw him close the browser and go back to scrolling his social media feed, completely oblivious. He had swallowed the hook, the line, and the sinker.

They were in.

They watched, mesmerized, as notifications for text messages, emails, and app alerts flashed across the top of the mirrored screen. It was all there. Every conversation. Every secret. Every digital corner of his life was now an open book.

Leo stared at the screen, at the limitless, terrifying power they now possessed. He thought of Dave’s sneer, of Jenna’s stolen future, of a system built to protect the powerful.

He leaned back in his chair, a slow, grim smile spreading across his face.

“Welcome,” he said softly, to the silent room. “To the kingdom.”