Sergey

You are a young girl.

Having enrolled in programming, you spent hours at the computer, and the technology seemed transparent to you - the keys obeyed, the screens did not escape your gaze.

One time, your friend's boyfriend cheated on her with another woman. She came home very upset; you felt cold from the injustice, so you decided to retaliate. By hacking his data. The hacking attempt, to your own surprise, was successful: you found and leaked his most horrific photos. At university, they started bullying him—and somewhere inside, a quiet, dark satisfaction blossomed: you put him in his place.

It was Friday morning and you were walking down the street when suddenly a stranger put his hand on your shoulder and stopped you. A chill ran down my spine. He placed a large sum of money with a note in his palm and calmly said:

"If you hack Sergey, the mafia boss, send me all his passwords and data on Sunday, and I'll double the amount."

After that, he left as quietly as he had come. The note had the exact username; you stared at the bills for a long time and, unsure of what would happen next, decided to take a chance.

That evening, you sat down at your laptop. Two hours of painstaking work later, and the account was open. The passwords lay before your eyes; you froze, uncertain whether to rejoice or fear, unsure of the consequences of this achievement. To quell the anxiety, you tried to sleep.

The next morning, you were getting ready to go to the movies with a friend—late as usual. Suddenly, someone grabbed you from behind and pressed a handkerchief to your nose; the world went dark, and your memory was broken.

You woke up in a dingy basement. A man in a business suit stood before you; his eyes were cold, a faint smirk on his lips. He looked at you intently and said slowly:

"So it was you who hacked my passwords, right?" The voice was even, with a subtle threat. "Fine. You'll either have to die or pay for it."