small bathroom, accompanied by the distinct tinkle of piss hitting ceramic.
Slowly Enda opened her eyes. She took in the city beyond the window, only snatches of it visible past the building opposite, a monolith of reflective glass and air-conditioner units. To the west, a thin sliver of black ocean rolled between twin apartment buildings with pirate flags of hanging laundry fluttering on half the balconies. Dark clouds still hung overhead, but not dark enough for Enda’s liking.
She swore under her breath. She never should have stayed the night. Never should have gotten drunk. She blamed Li. If he hadn’t harped on about her being so alone, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen into bed with the first woman who offered. The first gorgeous, smart, and cheeky woman who offered. Enda cursed again.
The toilet flushed and Crystal emerged from the bathroom. She retrieved light gray jersey briefs and a matching sports bra from her chest of drawers and dressed, seemingly unbothered by either hangover or morning-after regret. “Coffee?”
“Only if it’s quick,” Enda said. “I should go.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” Crystal left the room; clean surgical scars arced across her back like stylized wings.
Enda found her clothes at the foot of the bed. She dressed quickly—unsure if the body odor was from her clothes or her armpits. She checked her phone, found a waiting message from the Mechanic. Opened it to find a detailed data dump for the four hackers.
>> Monica Moniker, real name Monique Yoshino. Nineteen years of age. Currently out of the country. Social media posts suggest she’s on a spiritual retreat, but receipts from her mother’s credit card point to a drug rehabilitation center in Chiang Mai, Thailand.
>> Jay Bones, real name Bong Jun-seo. Sixteen years old. Recently incarcerated at the Daegu Detention Centre, awaiting trial for intellectual property violations.
>> San Doze, aka Park Soo-jin. Seventeen years old. She has an alibi in the form of tickets purchased for the World Cup Grand Final.
>> Doktor Slur, legal name Khoder Osman. Thirteen years old, on record with the Department of Immigration and Border Protection as having entered the country unaccompanied. Place of residence listed as a foster home in Incheon.
Enda furrowed her brow: Natalya had tagged Osman’s record as her pick for the heist’s DIE, but it didn’t sit right.
Crystal returned to the bedroom carrying two mugs. “I forgot to ask, but if you want milk and sugar I can take it back to the kitchen.”
“No, that’s fine,” Enda said. She took the mug, blew on it once, and drank deep, feeling the warmth spread through her system with the promise of caffeine. “I need to make a call.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Crystal said.
Enda took her phone and coffee into the en suite and closed the door behind her. She sat on the toilet and dialed the Mechanic.
“Good morning, Enda.”
“I just had a look at your list,” Enda said, forgoing the formalities. “I don’t buy Osman as the culprit; he’s just a kid. Look at Park again. Maybe she only bought the tickets for the alibi.”
“That seems unlikely,” Natalya said, perfectly calm, seemingly not bothered by Enda second-guessing her. “Soo-jin’s social media profiles are covered in football-related content going back a number of years. She appears to be a genuine and devoted fan.”
“That makes the alibi even better.”
“Permission to access your contex?”
“Granted,” Enda said.
A video appeared over Enda’s vision, floating over the white tile of Crystal’s clean and tidy bathroom. A swath of bright green filled the image—the green of stadium grass under lights. Natalya was showing her shaky handheld footage from the World Cup game, inexpertly chasing a player as they raced toward one end of the field. They kicked the ball, and when it hit the net, the video rocked wildly, then flipped to show Soo-jin’s face crying into the camera while behind her other fans jumped and cheered. Natalya paused the video on the tearful face, and facial recognition software drew guide lines across the woman’s features, registering a match to Park Soo-jin.
“Alright, fine,” Enda said. With a sweep of her arm, the video shunted to the right of her view and disappeared. She went back to the info packet on Khoder Osman. He looked maybe eleven years old in the photo—a skinny kid, maybe North Indian or Pakistani, with large, sad eyes.
She sighed.
“Khoder Osman is a prolific poster on the VOIDWAR forums,” Natalya said, “and has logged over three thousand hours in-game. He was not logged into the game at any point during the time