Paying money at Crestline hadn’t ended anything.
It had started a war.
Sean needed information. He needed Victor Hale’s weaknesses. His secrets. The things he kept buried because their exposure would cost him everything.
And to find those things, he needed soone with a very specific set of skills.
He pulled out his phone and searched his mory.
Max.
The na surfaced clearly. In the future Sean ca from, a news story had broken during his third year of college. A twenty-six-year-old hacker nad Maxwell Osei had been arrested by federal authorities for penetrating the FBI’s internal database system and selling classified information to foreign intelligence operators. The case had been massive. International headlines. The kind of story that defined a career.
But right now, in this tiline, Maxwell Osei was twenty years old. A second-year student at the College of Art downtown. A quiet kid who kept to himself.
Sean rembered one specific detail about him. Not from the news. From sothing else. A mory from his college days that he’d never thought was significant until now.
He had seen Maxwell Osei in the library. Multiple tis. Always in the sa corner of the fourth floor. Always alone. Always with multiple laptops open. He rembered thinking at the ti that the guy was either working on sothing massive or trying to hide from everyone.
Probably both.
Sean checked the ti. Two forty-seven in the afternoon.
Library hours: open until nine.
"Jas," said Sean. "Change of plans. Take to the College of Art."
----------
The College of Art sat three blocks east of Sean’s own campus. Smaller. More creative. The kind of institution where the hallways slled like paint and ambition and students walked around looking like they hadn’t slept since enrollnt.
Sean walked through the main building and found the library on the second and third floors. He took the stairs to the fourth floor. The one that wasn’t advertised much. The one students used when they wanted to be genuinely alone.
The space up here was narrow. Bookshelves on both sides. A row of individual study carrels along the far wall with privacy panels between them. The kind of serious academic quiet that had its own texture.
And there, in the far corner of the last carrel, was exactly who Sean was looking for.
Maxwell Osei was twenty years old. dium height. Lean. Dark skin. He had a natural presence of stillness about him, the kind of person who moved through spaces without drawing attention because everything about him was calibrated not to be noticed. He wore a plain black hoodie and dark jeans. No headphones in. Just the quiet.
He had two laptops open. The one on the left was running multiple windows that Sean couldn’t read from this angle. The one on the right had what looked like a line of code running continuously down the screen.
There was a half-eaten granola bar on the desk next to a water bottle that was so old it had condensation rings under it.
The guy had been here for hours.
Sean walked to the carrel next to Max’s. Pulled the chair out. Sat down.
Max didn’t look up.
Sean sat quietly for about forty seconds. Watching without staring. Taking in the setup. The posture. The way Max’s eyes moved across his screens with the practiced efficiency of soone who processed information faster than most people thought.
"You’re not a student here," said Max. He still hadn’t looked up.
"No," said Sean.
"Then you shouldn’t be in a student-access library."
"I found an open door," said Sean.
Max’s eyes moved briefly to Sean’s suit. Then back to his screen. "You’re either a guest lecturer or you’re lost."
"Neither," said Sean. "My na is Sean Miller. I go to the college across the road."
"Then go back there," said Max. Still typing. Still not looking up.
"I will," said Sean. "After I ask you sothing."
"I’m busy," said Max.
"I know," said Sean. "You’re always busy. You’re in this library almost every day. Fourth floor. This exact corner. Because the WiFi access point up here has a specific configuration that most people don’t know about and you exploited three weeks ago to extend your network access permissions."
Max’s fingers stopped on the keyboard.
Silence.
For the first ti, he looked at Sean. Directly. His eyes were sharp. Alert. The kind of eyes that didn’t miss much and didn’t trust quickly.
"Who are you?" said Max. His voice was flat. Careful.
"I told you," said Sean. "Sean Miller. I’m a freshman at the college across the road. And I need soone with your specific abilities."
Max looked at him for a long mont. Then he closed both laptop screens halfway. Not all the way. Just enough to make them harder to see from any angle.
"I don’t know what abilities or powersyou think I have," said Max carefully.
"You know exactly what abilities I an," said Sean. "Let’s not waste each other’s ti with denial. I’m not law enforcent. I’m not a competitor. I’m not interested in exposing you. I’m interested in hiring you."
"Hiring ," said Max flatly.
"For a specific job," said Sean. "Finding information on a specific person. The kind of information that doesn’t live in publicly accessible places."
Max stared at him. "You co to a library, sit next to a stranger, and ask them to commit a federal offense. Based on what exactly?"
"Based on what I know," said Sean simply.
"Which is what?"
"That you’re good enough to do what I need. And that you need money."
Max’s expression didn’t change. But sothing shifted in the stillness of it. Sothing careful.
"Everyone needs money," said Max.
"Not like you do," said Sean.
A beat. Max’s jaw tightened very slightly.
Sean continued: "Your sister. Amara. Twenty-four years old. Sickle cell disease. She’s been managing it for years but the last six months have been harder. She needs surgery. Extensive. The kind that doesn’t co cheap even with insurance. Your family doesn’t have that kind of money."
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