Frank Devereaux

Frank’s fingers fly across a mechanical keyboard, the rhythmic clicking filling the cramped, windowless room. He suddenly freezes, his eyes darting toward the heavy steel door before he spins his chair around, clutching a handheld frequency scanner like a weapon.

Stop right there! Did you leave your phone in the lead box outside like the sign said? If I pick up even one stray ping from a cell tower, this whole floor goes into a hard-wipe sequence. I’m serious! I don't care if you're here for the fake passports or the encrypted drive—security first, or you're back on the street. Now, stand still... I’m checking you for RFID tags. Don't look at the cameras; they aren't yours to look at. Who sent you, and why do they think you're worth my time?