I’m a man of many names.

The first I was born with.

The second I am proud of.

And the third I am not.

“Apex, Apex, Apex!” The crowd chants the third, their words ringing in my blooded ear. Dodging my opponent’s wicked left hook—which would surely lay me flat on my ass, given the man’s mammoth-like size—I go on the offensive, jabbing right for his jugular.

Choking, he reaches for his throat, stumbling backwards until he makes cold hard contact with the chain-link surrounding the ring. In an instant, spectators press against the other side of the barrier, screaming in both his ears, their eyes glazed with exhilarating hunger.

They’re nothing but animals.

And severe gambling addicts, who crunch cash between their fingers, having waged their bets on the winner of tonight’s main event. While I’m normally heavily favored, tonight’s odds were nearly even, meaning the underground arena’s even more packed than usual. And if the word around here is true, some kingpin, who thought he could make a quick buck betting for my loss, flew in my opponent—a Russian UFC fighter.

As sweat mixes with the blood trickling down his pecs, his head droops downwards. Guess he’s never been to a place like the Down Under.

Deciding that it’s time to end things, I glance one last time at the repulsive tattoo marking his entire bald scalp, then deliver a swift kick to the side of his temple, before he slumps to the ground.

The room explodes, with those in the crowd having one of two reactions. Losers snarl in disgust, slapping their money to the ground and stomping on the green. But the winners are the most rambunctious, either jumping in a frenzy or literally climbing the cage’s fence, meaning to storm the ring.

Knowing it’s best to leave before that happens, I exit through the single door attached to the ring. I’m met with a bare white hallway and the familiar face of my best—and only—friend. Squinting, my eyes adjust to the powerful overhanging fluorescents.

“I’d say that was one hell of a fight, but…” Bryson smirks, tossing me a towel.

“But it wasn’t.” I finish his sentence.

“Nope. You really made a show of toying with him. Seems you may have potential for professional MMA.” Pushing up the sleeves of his hoodie, revealing toned forearms, he turns from me, his long strides aiming for the door at the end of the corridor. “Not that you need the money.”

Trailing his lead, I snort, running the towel down the length of my bare torso. With only a few drops of my own blood on me, sweat slicks off my skin, leaving behind stone-hard muscles inked with intricate tattoos. After discarding the towel to the ground and shrugging into a black hoodie, we break through the exit door.

My eyes sigh in relief, returning to the dim darkness coating the heart of the Down Under. If it weren’t for the tents and stalls lining the perimeter of the underground area, then the smell of tobacco and a very distinct set of foods would inform us we’re entering the marketplace.

Staying close behind Bryson, I flick my hood over my head as we weave between bodies of shady marketgoers.

The Down Under brings in a wide variety of people who all share the commonality of meddling in illegal activity. One trip down here, and some alleged nobody passing you by may just be a gun for hire, pickpocket, run-of-the-mill thief, or New York City’s most successful crime lord.

Anything goes, really, as long as you don’t snitch to the wrong people—though that probably wouldn’t do any real harm. Even the NYPD turns a blind eye to this place, never having attempted a single raid. Presumably because they know the absolute shitstorm they’d get themselves into with any number of mobs or gangs, who quite like having a neutral zone away from the police.

I have a hunch about where he’s headed as we near the perimeter. And when we break from the crowd, leaving a purple stand with an aged woman I haven’t seen in years, my suspicion proves correct.

“Oh, no, Bryson—”

“Cool your jets. It’s not what it looks like, man.” Whipping his head towards me, he shoves both hands into his pockets, flattening his dark curls beneath the weight of his hood.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s only a hobby now.” With eyes wandering to the booth as if caught in a trance, his legs follow suit.

Letting out a huff, I follow, until the booth displays what I already knew would be there. Lockpicks. Picks of all different sizes and lengths scatter across the table, some with angled tips or winding grooves like a snake.

“A hobby? Come on, be real.”

“I am,” he says defensively.

Usually, I can instantly tell when someone is lying. But never with Bryson. Maybe it’s because he’s cut from the same cloth, having had a childhood comprising disappointment, struggle, being passed to and from orphanages, and living on the streets. If it wasn’t for Bryson’s crafty lock-picking skills granting us entrance into grocery stores, we both would’ve starved more than a few times.

The moment his hand grips around a handle, I clutch his arm, tugging him aside. “I thought you left this behind.”

“Get off me, man!” He shakes from my grasp, lowering his tone. “Do you really think I’m breaking into places? Stealing? What are we, fifteen again? Be serious, Tristan. I work on Wall Street wearing five-thousand-dollar suits. If I wanted to steal people’s hard-earned money, I already got the best job for that.”

My shoulders droop as an involuntary chuckle seeps through my lips at his crude joke. “Sorry, I should’ve believed you. It’s just… why here?”

“This place has the best stuff, better than anything online.” Returning his attention to the table, he grabs a pick, running a finger through the grooves. “And it’s alright. Thanks for looking after me—it’s really only a hobby.”

I listen to him undergo an intense haggle with the lady over a few bucks—which is ridiculous, given he’s a multi-millionaire. Turning my back, I appraise the market.

We first came to the Down Under at the ages of thirteen and fourteen. That I know. But what I’m not too sure of is at what age I decided it was a good idea to enter the cage. I remember it vividly, though, seeing as I got my ass kicked. But some internal fire kept leading me back, until the only hits I received were the ones I would allow.

Sometimes, I feel I deserve them—the hits. But I can’t quite pinpoint the reason. My five-hundred-dollar-an-hour shrink says I’m unable to move past the guilt surrounding my childhood, which leads to my, and I quote, “self-sabotaging and compulsive behavior.”

If only she knew I’m Silicon Avenue’s most wanted hacker on top of it, then she’d really give me an earful. With my own set of ethics, of course. As unbelievable as it may sound, my goal is to always leave a positive impact on society. My methods of doing so? Well, that’s where many would bat an eye.

After successfully haggling the price of a kit down to three-fifty from three-seventy-five, Bryson offers the woman cash. Although she wears a flustered appearance, when her palm fills with green, all that fluster turns to contentment—that is, until she looks over our shoulders. I cock my head, watching her smile morph into fear, before she quickly disappears through the curtain behind her.

An icy alertness slithers up my back. Somehow knowing who I’d see, I twist on my heel.

Jace.

I recognize the scrawny man with jet-black hair standing before us instantly. Presumably in his early twenties, Jace wears a plain white-T, ripped jeans, and a wicked grin. Judging by his outward appearance, he’s far from the threatening type around here.

Except for one thing.

The owl tattoo peeking out of his collar.

“Hello, Tristan,” he says.

Bryson tenses beside me, and from my peripherals, I catch him reaching behind his back.

“Don’t,” I hiss.

His weary gaze flicks to mine. “But he’s—”

“I know what he is.” I swallow. “We’ve… met before.”

His lips fall, a look edging on the side of betrayal shining in his features. But I don’t have time for explanations. I don’t have time to explain how Silicon Avenue’s theorized secret society—whom we’ve both known exists for quite some time—has had me under their thumb for almost two years. Because all I have time for right now is getting Bryson the hell away from their all-seeing eyes.

That is what they say.

“The Oculi see all.”

Jace seems to read my mind, repeating the society’s coined phrase with a monotone that has me questioning if it’s really a human living inside his skin. Quirking an eyebrow at me, he takes another step forward, donning a mocking expression. “Did you think that excluded your friend, Bryson Reed?”

Fuck.

My teeth grind together, threatening to saw off my enamel. “Bryson, leave. I’ll be fine.”

But his stubbornness prevails as he sizes up the man who’s half a head shorter than both of us. And he’s not wrong in doing so—we could both take him by the time we’d hear him squeal. But there would be unforeseen consequences.

When Bryson’s eyes reach mine, I nod curtly. And to my surprise, pressing his lips into a thin line, he leaves the booth, disappearing into the darkness.

“Such a shame. The society could find a great use for his skills, if only he wished to serve a greater purpose. You two share that in common.”

“What do you want?” I clip out.

“Quite the attitude, aimed towards someone who’s only a—oh, how did you so poetically phrase it last time?” He rubs his chin, putting on a show. “A bitch lackey under the thumbs of those who really matter.”

I cross my arms. “Case in point: here you are again.”

“And you’re any better? What is it, hacker by day, cage-fighting animal by night? I’d wager you can only count on one hand the number of people who know all your names.” He circles me, agitation boiling in my core when he continues. “In truth, I pity you. I can’t imagine how fucked up you are in the head. Probably because of what happened to your parents—”

In a blink, I thread the collar of his shirt between my fists, and take another good look at the owl tattoo crawling up his right pectoral. Curving with complicated geometric shapes, a crescent moon wraps around the bird’s head, and thick ink accentuates its eyes.

Eyes that appear in my dreams.

Maybe they really can see me. I hope so—

I slam him down on the table, his yelp pouring cool satisfaction over my veins. He stares at me for a moment, genuine fear shining in his pupils, before doing what no other man in his position would. He laughs. Acting like a complete hysteric, he shakes beneath me, cackles ringing out across our small enclosure.

Loosening my hold, our first encounter nearly two years ago flashes before my mind. When my whole life turned to shit, and I learned what this mysterious pawn does best—pushes my buttons.

“Get lost, buddy,” I tell the scrawny man behind me, who follows my footsteps. Shoving between spectators, I slick the sweat off my chest with a towel, as some pat me on my back or roar in my ears. “I saw that tattoo of yours. Trust me, you won’t be the one who finally converts me to their cause.”

I bank a left, freeing myself from the crowd, right in front of the water fountain station near the bathrooms. A random from the crowd approaches us, smiling, but when he catches the tattoo poking out of my new stalker’s shirt, his face falls before he gets lost.

“My name’s Jace. Nice to meet you, too. And this isn’t about conversion, Tristan,” I barely hear him say.

For years now, The Oculi and I have had a so-called mutual understanding:

I don’t reveal them to the public.

They don’t expose my hacker name.

And we don’t meddle in each other’s affairs.

Simple as that.

While I appear to the society as any other hacker—who steals and gives no thought of the general public—that’s simply untrue. But they can never know that. Because if they did, they’d realize it’s my sole intention to expose them and, even worse, that I haven’t yet. Which could only mean one thing.

I can’t.

Admittedly, I do possess backdoor access to a public channel that would quite literally make them the face of New York City. I have the power play, so to speak. The shock-and-awe script waiting for execution. Meaning, even with their vast reach and extensive efforts, there’d be no chance of a cover-up, as the damage to them would be irreversible.

But that’s just the problem…

Who is “them?”

In theory, I could expose a few of their members, the ones I’m aware of, several of whom have flashy names and deep pockets on Silicon Avenue. They’d be thrown behind bars and plastered all over the news. But that wouldn’t be enough. That wouldn’t dispose of them all, and evidence suggests there are quite a lot of members, with whoever reigns on top being unknown.

“Of course, it’s about conversion,” I say between gulps, splashing ice-cold water on my face. “What else would it be about?”

“The society has had a change of heart.”

“Right, sure they have. What’re they going to bribe me with this time? A yacht? New equipment? Maybe some shiny real estate properties?”

He holds out a manila folder. “We have two requests of you.”

Christ…

When will they get it through their thick skulls that I’m never joining their ranks? Rolling my eyes, I snatch the folder, letting intrigue get the best of me. They’ve never requested anything from me…

Turning to the first page, I instantly know what this is about—the Bass Mobile trial, which is no secret to me, including the fact that the society had involvement in spying on their customers. Flipping through, I’m met with a slew of technical jargon, all of which is plain English to me.

Backdoor scripts, database scrapers, encrypted communications and channels linking to offshore accounts… Clearly, all of this was managed from the inside by someone who’s technically savvy, no doubt. But now that there’s so much attention on Bass Mobile, they need someone on the company’s outside: a hacker. And, given the timeframe, they need the best, otherwise they wouldn’t come to me.

They want me to erase the society’s involvement before the trial starts.

Offering back the folder, I shake my head. “Oscar Bass is none of my concern.”

“And he shouldn’t be. We have no more use for him. He’s going down no matter the outcome, but The Oculi will remain. Meaning, all traces of our involvement must be gone before the trial’s investigations.”

When he doesn’t take it back, irritation pricks at my temple. “What of our understanding, our agreement? What makes your bosses think they can make such a request? This is grossly overstepping the line.”

“My apologies, I must’ve misspoken. This isn’t a request. Flip to the last page.”

My heart thumps at the ire in his tone, at his new surge of confidence. When I comply, a vile wave of nausea climbs up my throat, studying the picture taped to the final page.

In the darkness of nighttime, through the window of her dorm room, my younger sister—the only family I have left on this earth—lies on her bed, face buried between the pages of a fine arts textbook. Blonde hair tied messily atop her head, she sports a sweatshirt inked with Columbia University’s signature-blue lion mascot.

And she couldn’t look more peaceful.

To her, I’m nothing but a rich techie who made smart investments, not the damaged mess who frequents the Down Under and encrypted chat rooms. And that’s how I’ve designed our relationship to be, so she never dips a single toe in the life I live.

But, even with all my efforts, all I do is cause her trouble.

Jace’s cackle rings in my ears, snapping me back into focus, finding his posture straight and imposing. “Did you really think removing her from the university’s public records would prevent us from finding her? Sneaky, sneaky.” He wags his pointer finger at me, lips curling so viscously, I only see red. “But not sneaky enough. Just because you two don’t share a last name doesn’t mean she’s invisible to us.”

Running my hands through the tendrils of my silky hair, I’m utterly speechless, which allows him to taunt further.

“Oh, how I’d love to meet the young lady. Columbia University? Wow, that’s impressive. What a pleasure it was seeping through her records. Did you know she’s been top of her class for four straight years? There’s talk of naming her valedictorian. Seems she’s got the smarts—must run in the family. But also, the talent, with such a bright future ahead of her… Gosh, what a pretty name, too. Aurora Stevens—”

“FINE,” I snap, anything to remove her name from his slithering tongue. “You know you have me. It’s as good as done. No one on that trial will get a whiff of the society’s involvement. Now, goodbye.”

“Not so fast.” He blocks my way past him.

God, his face is punchable. So much so that I’d love to find out how hard I’d have to squeeze until his head pops right off his neck. With a sharp exhale, through my blinding rage, I recall his words earlier. “What’s the second request?”

“Oh, this is where it gets really fun. We need you to enter into an arranged marriage—”

I almost topple backwards. What did he—

“Yep, you heard me right. And here’s the kicker. With Lauren Astor.”

What the fuck???

Everyone on Silicon Avenue has heard that name. And while I may live only five minutes down the road from her family’s rolling estates, nobody socializes with me. And I do mean nobody, seeing as I’m the biggest recluse on Wisteria Drive. Members of high society may know of me, but no one’s knocking on my door and inviting me to fancy brunches or anything.

I’d chuckle if it wasn’t for my dreadful predicament. That’s how ludicrous that statement sounds. “Never in a million years would they agree to that.”

“We’re thinking they will once the trial’s over. Astor Security—which, might I remind you, is the company your own code kick-started all those years ago—will need a new CEO.”

This is getting out of hand.

“Do you not realize how crazy you sound? Astor Security is the largest security company in America, probably in the world. Nicholas Astor would never relieve himself of his position. And, for that matter, arranging his daughter to marry—essentially, handing over half their family’s shares to a complete outsider? No… There’s nothing you could bribe that man with.”

This is no longer plain, life-threatening blackmail. This is absolute nonsense. I pass him by, his weak arm proving an unsuccessful deterrent. But what does stop me in my tracks, though, are his next words hitting me square in the back.

“Which is why we won’t bribe him. No, when the time is right, Nicholas Astor will disappear.”

I snap from my haze, returning to reality, watching the man I’m so sick of rise to his feet and dust himself off.

“You’ll do what we say, when we say. And you’d best remember what’s at stake for you, Tristan Walker. Your aliases, your sister, your friend, and anyone else you may get attached to in this lifetime will be as good as dead if you fuck this up.”

Fear churns within my bones as Jace crosses the space between us, plunging his hand deep into his pockets. “Full compliance is our request now. From here on, you’re not only a complacent hacker under the helm of Astor Security, but a loving husband.”

He reveals a small black box, an enormous engagement ring and a gold wedding band flashing from inside.

The moment the pair comes into view, a complex mixture of emotions replaces my fear. First, there’s a twinge of guilt, having broken my resilient ethical code when I hacked and watched her most private moments. But, recalling the needy temptress she truly is, lust overshadows my shame.

It’s true. I should’ve never crossed that first line.

But I have to know her.

“The arrangement has been made. Your bride awaits. We’ll be in touch.”

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