Chapter 10 - The Transfer Rate and the Shadow in the Glass
I pressed the encrypted flash drive into the USB port with a soft, clean snap. The monitor flickered instantly, shifting from the abstract screensaver to a command line interface that scrolled rows of hexadecimal code faster than the eye could follow. My heart hammered against my ribs, a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed louder than the muffled laughter leaking through the frosted glass from the poker table next door. On the screen, a progress bar appeared, glowing a stark, clinical blue. *12 percent complete. Estimated time remaining: four minutes.* Four minutes in a room belonging to a man who had tried to crush my wrist because I wouldn't smile at his taunts felt like an eternity. I kept my eyes fixed on the display, my hand hovering just above the desk in case I needed to yank the drive free and bolt. The air in the office was thick with the scent of cedarwood cologne and old paper, a suffocating reminder of how deep I had stepped into Thorne’s war. A sudden shadow fell across the frosted glass partition. The laughter stopped dead, replaced by the distinct scrape of a heavy chair legs against the hardwood floor in the next room. My blood ran cold. One of the men was standing up, his silhouette looming large against the translucent panel, turning directly toward the connecting door. I grabbed the edge of the mahogany desk, my knuckles turning white as I willed the progress bar to move faster. *45 percent.* The shadow shifted, growing larger as the figure stepped closer to the door handle. I didn't breathe. I braced my legs against the floor, ready to pull the drive and dive behind the heavy velvet drapes if the door swung open. The metal latch gave a slight, terrifying click as someone tested it from the other side, but then a voice called out from the poker table, asking for a re-deal. The shadow hesitated, paused for a agonizing three seconds, and then drifted away back toward the center of the room. I let out a long, shuddering breath, my eyes locking back onto the screen as the bar ticked past seventy percent. This was the game now—every second balanced on a razor's edge between survival and total ruin.
