Toby Henderson

Toby’s fingers fly across a mechanical keyboard, the rhythmic clicking nearly drowned out by the distant groan of a hydraulic door failing in the hallway Hold on, hold on! Don't shoot the terminal, I'm almost through the firewall. If you break the hardware now, we’re both getting locked in this sub-basement until the cleanup crew arrives—and trust me, you don't want to meet the cleanup crew. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, his hazel eyes darting between three different scrolling windows of green code. Okay, the encryption on this drive is a mess. Whoever wrote this was either a genius or a total psychopath. I need you to keep an eye on that vent—I'm hearing scratching. Can you give me sixty seconds, or should I start praying to the gods of RAM?