King is Back

~Alexie Ivanov~

Pulling a disc from his pocket, he handed it to the Speaker for playback. Discs, though outdated, were easier to destroy than to hack, making them the preferred choice over pendrives or cloud storage for people like us. Plugging in the disc, it revealed a single file, the contents of which were projected onto the screen. Taking the mic, he began, "So, ladies, not-so-gentle men, and any other species." he cast a meaningful glance at a particular individual amidst the masked crowd. "Tell me, what is something common that you can notice among all these people in the file?"

A dead silence followed his question. Being hidden in the crowd provided them with natural camouflage, and speaking or responding in turn would compromise that advantage. Therefore, most heads would only transmit their messages via their trusted companions standing adjacent to them, who would then inform the speaker standing under the light. However, there are always exceptions to every rule, and when it seemed that the Handler wouldn't accept a refusal for his dramatic presentation, Slythera pounced in annoyance.

"What relevance does this hold for your case?" he exclaimed.

Handler, seemingly content, cast a measured gaze before proceeding, "These individuals met their demise due to the transgressions of a certain Lady Laroret-"

Once again, an indignant roar cut him off. "Do not speak her name so casually, you insolent fool! Cease squandering our invaluable time. If you lack substantial information, save us the trouble and forfeit your head!"

The mirth disappeared from Handler's countenance, replaced by a visage contorted with anger, as fumes of frustration subtly wafted from his very essence. Nevertheless, he maintained his composure, articulating with calculated venom, "All these souls have departed — fifty lives for one!"

"Who cares!" the fool bellowed, heedless of the intricate web tightening around him.

"I do, for they might be nobodies to you, but they were human lives. But alas," he tsked, a solemn look on his face as he continued, "such is our business, and such are we—monsters. So let's not dwell on those lives that are lost. Instead, let's talk about the lives that could have been lost and the causes behind these losses."

The intensity of his words stirred murmurs among the audience, redirecting their attention to the presentation. Heaps of supporting medical reports were then presented one after another, with paper files passing along the heads. A pile was even handed to me, and as I raised my brow, a humorous laugh rumbled in my throat, but I managed to control it. The cause of death for all one fifty people was eerily similar, with symptoms like chest pain, confusion, eye tearing, and difficulty in breathing.

A head murmured a message to their companion, and it was relayed to the speaker. He asked, "What is the cause of their deaths?"

Humming, the Handler finally sprung into action, stating, "A particular delicacy very common in Asian cuisine." His gaze sharpened, landing onto a particular individual visibly distressed by the papers in his hands. "Pickled vegetables."

Another message was relayed, "Stop the dramatic pauses, Handler. Hurry up; we have places to go."

Handler sighed, shaking his head. "The lives of one fifty people summed up in such haste," he shrugged. "Cyanide was found in the wholesale B2B business that supplied all restaurants in Eastern Docks with their pickled vegetables. And guess who owns this company?" His eyes narrowed at a certain individual.

Ten minutes later, we strode out of the room, Handler's golden mask back on as he smirked in victory, glancing back at the gritting man until the double doors shut off his cries completely. Who would have thought—scratch that, I would have thought—that Handler would go as far as to sacrifice one fifty of his own men to create such an elaborate lie. Sighing, I was even more surprised at the men who sacrificed themselves for their boss's well-being.

The B2B business was indeed a real entity owned by Luong Tan, under whom Lady Larorette was mixing cyanide into their product to target the gang that Handler controlled. Despite this treacherous plot being quickly discovered, Handler, in his meticulous manner, went ahead with sacrificing some of his men on the chopping board instead of himself. It was a cruel decision, but nothing less was expected from him.

Handler had an uncanny charm and control over his men, almost cult-like in nature. Their undying loyalty was reminiscent of the yakuza's brotherhood, but I didn't delve much into it. My task was done, and with that, there was no reason for me to stay in France. It had already been a couple of days, and somehow, I felt homesick.

The Council Heads faced two choices. The first would have resulted in immediate bloodshed, right there and then. The second, which the cowards chose, would lead to bloodshed later, preparing for the inevitable future.

Sighing, I took in the night breeze as we stood side by side, waiting for a car to pick me up. Casually, I started, "Now what?"

He gave a simple reply, fixating his piercing gaze into the darkness of the wilderness that surrounded us, "All debts must be paid."

As I saw the car approach, I nodded and slid in, my own thoughts running astray. This trip had proved to be nothing but a pain in my ass. However, even I couldn't deny the shift in variables around me—events were occurring, and people were starting to act. I could no longer turn a blind eye to it; the itch to monitor and control every minute detail knocked on my brain. My fingers twitched in excitement, and my breathing jagged with anticipation. The sheer idea of coming back had me on a high. Like an addict given the prospect to smoke once again, I was aching to show these fools who they had messed with. It is said by a wise man not to poke a sleeping tiger, or it will shred them apart, and shred them apart, I will.

My strides were steady as I entered my humble room, gathering my supplies and sitting in front of the vintage PC setup. One advantage that Lucien inadvertently granted me was understanding how someone could erase themselves given the perfect set of equipment — the very equipment set in front of me. Pulling out Tor, I dialed in my login ID into the browser.

USSERNAME: CippherNoir

PASSWORD: ******************

The beauty of being dubbed a creator or an inventor is that once you've figured out the skeletal structure of a system, building another similar one becomes akin to performing a magic trick. My fingers worked in rapid intervals as I added the final touches to the second version of my marketplace, now named "Trunk 2.0."

Pulling out a tiny SD card from a heart pendant strategically placed on a choker necklace, I inserted the file into the system. I divided hours of content into small, strategically crafted snippets, forming a concise representation that cut right to the core. Cracking my knuckles, I signed into my website, "Trunk," and uploaded the file across various servers, initiating an auction for all those files.

A dark chuckle passed my lips as I logged off, erasing any traces of my use from the ancient specimen. I gathered my bags, heading to the airport. Pulling out a burner phone, I dialed a number. "Hello, Henri," I called out to the "bodyguard" I had been assigned earlier. "Get ready." With that, I cut the call and waited for my escort at the airport. Now that the proceedings were over, so was the protection I had been provided. There was no way I would let myself be vulnerable, especially when, by the time I reached America, I would be sitting on a golden hen, pumping out millions for me.

"And that's what happens," I breathed, "when you mess with the King of the Dark Web."

~Third Person POV~

In the AVID headquarters, Henk Visser savored a gratifying sip of his coffee, his aged eyes expressing contentment. After four decades of dedicated service, he had sacrificed much for his country – from precious hours of sleep to the companionship of three wives. Now, as he approached retirement, a well-earned respite awaited him. The thick pension that awaited him meant he could finally relish his sixties, envisioning a leisurely lifestyle akin to the dreams of his younger self. The state remained peaceful, and given his seniority, he was seldom troubled with non-nation-threatening cases.

Nestled in his plush seat, Henk Visser was abruptly interrupted by an urgent knock on his door. His years of experience etched concern onto his features, as such knocks rarely heralded positive news. "Come in," he instructed.

Officer Bastiaan Vermeer swiftly entered the office, closing the door behind him. "Sir, he is back," he conveyed in a frenzy.

The lines on Henk's forehead deepened as he poured a glass of water for the officer, urging him to collect himself. Bastiaan appeared as if he had just completed a marathon, his breaths jagged and uneven. Accepting the glass, he gulped down its contents in one go before responding to Henk's inquiry, "Who is back, Bastiaan? Tell me slowly."

Upon hearing the revelation, the young officer slammed his glass onto the table, startling Henk. Never had he witnessed the typically composed and collected officer in such a frenzy. "He's back! Cipher Noir is back!" the young officer exclaimed.

The color drained from the senior's face, and his knees buckled beneath him. Slowly, his body sank back into the plush seat, the once-luxurious leather offering no comfort. It was as if Officer Bastiaan understood the tumultuous thoughts racing through his senior's mind, for he maintained a respectful silence.

Five years ago, in the nascent days of the dark web market, an enigmatic figure named Cipher Noir emerged as a messiah for criminals across various sectors. He birthed a marketplace that would come to dominate the realm of illegal transactions for the ensuing two years — Trunk. This cutting-edge site, modern in its design and functionality, granted criminals worldwide the anonymity to peddle a diverse array of illicit goods. From drugs to ammunition, malware to credit card information, Trunk became the one-stop destination for any nefarious need.

In its infancy, the site served as a perceived safe haven, utilizing multiple servers scattered globally and employing a distribution system based on a pooling mechanism. Trunk operated with seemingly no restrictions, making it challenging to trace both the site and its users. However, even more elusive was the individual orchestrating this clandestine operation. Within a mere year of existence, Cipher Noir earned the moniker "King of the Dark Web." The shadowy figure's identity remained shrouded in mystery, adding to the intrigue and danger surrounding the notorious Trunk marketplace.

When the existence of Trunk became an imminent threat, multiple international security agencies were compelled to join forces and form a specialized team to track down the elusive individual behind it. At that time, the head of this formidable task force was Henk Visser. He vividly recalls the pivotal moment when, after two years of Cipher Noir's reign, a direct communication was established from the elusive figure.

The message was succinct but chilling: "It's pitiful to watch you. How about I give you something better than myself?"

In a daring move, a deal was struck that fateful night. Cipher Noir would be granted immunity in exchange for all the criminal data and information on illegal sites he had amassed from his users over the span of two years. To the casual observer, the balance of scales might have seemed askew, but Henk understood the unique value Cipher Noir held. The power of one individual could effectively counterbalance the multitude of criminals targeted by this operation.

Instead of handing over the Trunk site itself, Cipher Noir agreed to transfer the data to a secret server. Access to this server was provided to Henk and his team, giving them a mere twenty-four hours to purge the virtual landscape of the amassed criminal data before Cipher Noir and Trunk would exit the web altogether.

Cipher Noir's audacity was apparent, and Henk couldn't forget the daring nature of the deal. When he pressed for collateral to guarantee the veracity of the information and to guard against any potential double-cross, Cipher Noir simply shrugged off the concern, asserting, "Remember, it is you who seeks me, not the other way around. Henk, I know you are smarter than this, and we both know the power I hold. So, stop wasting my time and get on or get out."

Acknowledging the truth in Cipher Noir's words, Henk realized the information held by the elusive figure could easily be sold for millions, but instead, he opted to donate it to the agencies.

That very night, when Henk presented his findings to his Chief, a swift decision was made in a meeting among all the agencies, taking a mere ten minutes to reach a consensus.

True to Cipher Noir's word, the next day brought glory for the agencies, yet Henk understood the high cost that came with it. Despite the dissolution of the team, Henk persisted in his personal quest to find the man behind the legend, Cipher Noir. However, the elusive figure remained traceless, seemingly erased from existence. Henk hit a dead end within a few months until he decided to seek the expertise of a renowned Computer Science professor specializing in Blockchain technology.

Presently, Henk snapped back to the current moment and glanced at his junior, visibly uneasy. "We...need...to..." his words struggled to form. "Tell everyone."

Bastiaan, sensing his senior regaining control, responded, "Sir, they already know. Right now, they are waiting for you in the conference hall."

Henk raised his brows, a mix of surprise and understanding on his face. Grunting, he willed his legs to move, a sense of excitement returning to his strides as they made their way towards the conference hall. Henk turned to his junior and asked, "What has he done, though?"

Bastiaan, gulping, replied, "He has, or rather will, put the world's top figures in a massive media scandal."

Halting, Henk looked back in confusion. Bastiaan showed him his tablet, the auction screen open on the site named "Trunk 2.0." Henk's eyes widened, and the need for that plush seat to support him became urgent, but he maintained his composure. "What is this?" he breathed, eyeing the rising numbers, the adding zeros in front of a dollar sign, in horror. Hundreds, thousands, millions...

"Sir, this," Bastiaan sighed, ready to support his senior for what he was about to reveal, "are snippets from a larger video showing esteemed individuals engaging in, um, debaucherous acts. Although their faces are yet to be revealed, we know this has something to do with the yacht party that Pierre Michel Laurent organized."

Henk's brain was in turmoil. Such a scandal would shake countries, destabilize the security of the globe, and give a free pass for hooligans to plunder. Squinting towards the screen, he grasped, "That person looks like..."

"Yes, the ex-president of the USA," Bastiaan completed the sentence for him.

Henk felt nauseated to his core.