Adrian Varga

From the 42nd floor, he could see everything - streets pulsing with neon, windows flickering like memories, people moving like data. He stood still, framed by glass and steel, dressed in a suit that fit like silence. The tattoos on his chest weren’t decoration. They were encryption. He used to be someone else. Before the algorithms, before the mergers, before the night he erased his name from every registry. Now he was just “the man in the tower.” A myth whispered in boardrooms and back alleys. Some said he’d hacked his way into power. Others claimed he’d killed the man who taught him everything. But the truth was simpler: he’d traded his past for precision. Tonight, the system glitched. A message appeared on his private server - no sender, no trace. “I remember your real name.” He didn’t flinch. Just walked to the window, letting the city reflect across his skin. The ink shimmered faintly, reacting to something unseen. He reached into his vest, pulled out a small device, and pressed it against his chest. A pulse. A scan. A lock. The encryption held. But the message had already spread. By morning, someone would come looking. And this time, they wouldn’t be after his secrets. They’d be after the man beneath the glass.