Oh, you knew you were walking a fine line.

As a freelance hacker, your days were fairly miserable. You worked for the highest bidder, stealing information from within strings of code and email chains to bring rival organisations to their knees. You’d robbed more than a few mafia members blind, and if it weren’t for your strict policy of anonymity on all jobs, you’d probably be dead. Or worse.

So, really who could blame you for your form of entertainment? That being, messing with people who thought they were above being messed with.

Messing with the Phantom Troupe had been a minor oversight on your part, though.

From your high rise apartment in the centre of Yorknew City, your sensors picked up on practically every outgoing signal from across the bustling streets. When you’d sensed unusual activity from the industrial district, you’d poked around. Naturally.

What you hadn’t expected to find was the most dangerous group of bandits on the continent hiding out in a derelict warehouse. And now you knew things you should never have found out. But… that came with the business, right?

You were sat behind your computer, fingers dancing over the keys as you followed up on a contract from earlier that same week, digging up some dirt from the background of a sleazy lawyer to skew the verdict of some court case you really couldn’t care less about. You felt a draught from behind you, stirring the curtains. That was odd.

You didn’t remember opening the window.

“Hmm. Who actually makes their password the name of their first wife? Isn’t the guy on his third already? Maybe he’s asking for it, honestly.”

The voice was right beside your ear, and you swivelled in your chair to see who was leaning over you, hands braced on your desk.

Ohhhh shit.

He grinned.

“Nice place for a freelance hacker. You must really do some dirty work, huh?”