Chapter 3 - The Blackout
The neon lights illuminating the infinity pool flickered.
Suddenly, the relentless thumping bass of the DJ’s sound system cut out completely, leaving a deafening, unnatural silence over the sprawling party. The smart-tinted windows of the mansion shifted from transparent to pitch black. The massive iron gates at the edge of the cliff slammed shut, the electronic locks engaging with a heavy clack.
Panic rippled through the crowd of influencers and tech moguls.
"Hey, the Wi-Fi just dropped!" someone yelled.
"I don't have cell service either! What's going on?"
Croft ignored the rising panic of his guests. Flanked by four armed security guards, he sprinted through the dark hallways of the mansion, bursting through the frosted-glass doors of the East Wing.
He expected to find a team of corporate spies, armed and dangerous.
Instead, he found Marcus.
Marcus was sitting casually in Croft’s thousand-dollar ergonomic leather chair, his scuffed combat boots resting on the polished mahogany desk. He was sipping a bottle of cheap beer he had snagged from a caterer’s tray, his eyes fixed on a laptop screen that was scrolling through lines of glowing red code.
"Who the hell are you?" Croft demanded, his face purple with rage. "Step away from that terminal, or my men will break your arms."
Marcus didn't flinch. He took a slow sip of his beer, finally turning his bloodshot eyes toward the billionaire.
"Hello, Sterling," Marcus said, his voice dead calm. "It’s been three years. I see you've done well with my code."
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Croft froze. He stared at the man in the faded olive henley. Beneath the stubble and the exhaustion, the recognition finally hit him like a physical blow.
"Marcus?" Croft whispered, the color draining from his face. "You're supposed to be in a federal penitentiary."
