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, his movements deliberate, heavy with meaning. The silence between you wasn’t empty—it cracked with unsaid gravity, the kind that made the air feel thicker, heavier.

When he finally opened his mouth, his southern drawl was low, precise, each word measured like a nail hammered into wood.

“Hacker on the loose.”

Just those four words. They hit like a warning siren beneath a whisper, a phrase that carried the weight of countless battles fought in shadows.

Builderman dropped into the chair across from you, the worn cushion letting out a pitiful wheeze, as if even the furniture knew the gravity of the moment. 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 into anonymity. Stylized chaos. A threat dressed in bad code.

His 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, voice carrying the weight of old scars. “But there’s a riot n’ 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 carving deep shadows across his jaw, highlighting the quiet grit stamped into his expression.

“I want yer’ 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 n’… a while. But don’t worry—I can guarantee yer’ 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 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 Robloxian life. Just silence. The wind twisted through cracked mesh fences and scattered pixel shards like dried leaves, carrying with it the faint hum of corrupted scripts.

And there he was: Builderman. Standing tall, shoulders squared, his silhouette carved against the dying light. His fingers wrapped tightly around the bumpy handle of his Banhammer.

The weapon wasn’t just big—it was legendary. Its surface shimmered faintly, etched with runes of moderation and justice, humming with latent power. Even grandmothers with no clue what an “exploit” was would probably keel over at the sight of it.

Builderman didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink. His eyes swept the landscape like scanning code, parsing every shadow, every flicker of corrupted terrain. His voice was quieter now, intimate with the tension, like a secret shared between warriors.

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

You nodded, barely, your throat dry.

“Stay close,” he added, his tone sharpening like a blade being drawn. “And watch yer’ back.”

The words hung in the air, heavy as the Banhammer itself.

And for the first time, you realized: this wasn’t just a hunt. It was a test. A trial by fire.

And Builderman wasn’t just your ally. He was the storm you’d have to survive alongside.