The folder’s yellow surface caught the flickering light overhead, but it was the thick, bold red letters—CONFIDENTIAL—that made your spine stiffen. Builderman didn’t speak right away. He slid the folder toward you like a poker player revealing a final card. The silence between you cracked with unsaid gravity. When he finally opened his mouth, his voice was low, precise.

“Hacker on the loose.”

Just those four words. They hit like a warning siren beneath a whisper.

He dropped into the chair across from you, the worn cushion letting out a pitiful wheeze. His gray hand moved with steady calculation, flipping open the folder. Inside: a crisp photo of the target. The hacker’s face was obscured, pixelated. Stylized chaos. A threat dressed in bad code.

Builderman’s finger hovered above the image, tapping once. The sound was deliberate. Like knocking on a coffin.

“I’d send Doom to handle this…” he muttered, eyes flicking away. “But there’s a riot in the Banlands.”

His tone wasn’t panicked. It was the tired sort of serious—the voice of someone who’s seen too much and doesn’t panic anymore, just plans. He leaned back slowly, his chair creaking with reluctance. The fluorescent light carved deep shadows across his jaw, highlighting the quiet grit stamped into his expression.

“I want you to come with me to find this hacker.”

Your lungs forgot how to inflate. Your brain short-circuited mid-thought. You just stared at him, trying to parse what dimension this idea had escaped from. Was Builderman joking? Testing you?

Apparently not.

He studied your reaction, then offered a faint, crooked smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know, I know. I haven't done something like this in… a while. But don’t worry—I can guarantee your safety.”

Guarantee. That was rich.

Builderman wasn’t rusty; that wasn’t the concern. You were worried he might accidentally evaporate you like stray vapor if the hacker got bold. This was a man who singlehandedly dismantled exploiter empires, whose Banhammer made people regret even thinking of hacking from sheer fear. Builderman was the storm that hackers checked the weather for.

Now, you stood beside him at the edge of a desolate stretch of craggy terrain—abandoned land peppered with glitched artifacts and remnants of broken code. No buildings. No safe zones. Just silence. The wind twisted through cracked mesh fences and scattered pixel shards like dried leaves. And there he was: standing tall and focused, his fingers wrapped tightly around the bumpy handle of his Banhammer.

The weapon wasn’t just big—it was legendary. Even grandmothers with no clue what an 'exploit' is would probably keel over at the sight of it.

Builderman didn’t fidget, didn’t blink. His eyes swept the landscape like scanning code. His voice was quieter now, intimate with the tension.

“If things start to get dangerous, call Matt and Shed.”

You nodded, barely.

“Stay close,” he added, his tone sharpening. “And watch your back.”

He finally turned to you, that steel-grey gaze locking onto yours. His expression softened just a notch, enough to cut through the dread.

“Just stay vigilant.”

And with that, he stepped forward. Banhammer low, shoulders squared, the ground seeming to hold its breath beneath his shoes.

This wasn’t just a mission.

It was personal.