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Cryptocurrency: Web of Deception. Sat Oshi
Читать онлайн.Название Cryptocurrency: Web of Deception
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9785006495326
Автор произведения Sat Oshi
Издательство Издательские решения
The apartment was eerily ordinary. Everything was in its place, yet the absence of its occupant was palpable. Empty coffee cups cluttered the counter, a jacket draped over a chair, and unopened mail piled on a side table. The faint hum of a refrigerator was the only sound.
On the desk sat a laptop, its lid slightly ajar. Beside it was another photograph of Dylan, identical to the one Elizabeth had shown. But this one had something scrawled on the back: «You know where to find me.»
Mark flipped it over again, his brow furrowing. A challenge? A clue? Either way, it was meant for someone – maybe him now.
He opened the laptop, but the screen immediately prompted for a password. He leaned back, exhaling in frustration. The answers wouldn’t come that easily.
Taking out his phone, Mark snapped pictures of everything – the room, the desk, the photo, even the stacks of unopened mail. There were clues here; they just hadn’t revealed themselves yet.
Locking the door behind him, Mark stepped back into the silent hallway, a gnawing sense of urgency beginning to take root. Somewhere out there, in the labyrinth of the digital world Dylan had immersed himself in, was the key to his disappearance. Mark just had to find it.
Chapter 3: The Client’s Shadow
Night had draped itself over the city, leaving it awash in the faint glow of scattered streetlights and neon reflections shimmering on rain-soaked asphalt. The air was thick and acrid, heavy with the perpetual haze of exhaust fumes. The metropolis, sprawling and impersonal, resembled a sterile beast holding back an encroaching silence.
Mark lingered at a bus stop – not to catch a ride, but to watch the few late-night pedestrians shuffle past. They moved like shadows, cloaked in hoods or shielded under umbrellas, avoiding eye contact. Each was a fragment of the city’s faceless crowd. But his thoughts were far from the scene around him. The photograph he had found in Dylan’s apartment pressed against his chest like a live coal, hidden in his jacket pocket. Who was the woman in the photo? Her words reverberated in his mind: «You know where to find me.» But he didn’t. Not yet.
Looking up, Mark’s eyes caught the sign of the café where he and Elizabeth had met earlier. Over coffee, she had mentioned Dylan’s coworkers – people who might know more than they let on.
By midnight, Mark found himself in a dimly lit bar that straddled the line between a rundown pub and an underground club. The air was stale, a cocktail of cheap beer, stale bread, and grease wafting from the kitchen. The place bore the ambitious name «Greyhound’s Den,» though it hardly deserved such grandeur. Inside, flickering neon signs cast an eerie glow through soot-smeared windows.
At the bar stood a man Mark recognized immediately: Thomas Hale, one of Dylan’s former colleagues. Hale looked like a man with nothing left to lose – his frayed overcoat and distant gaze told the story of a man outpaced by life. Mark walked up and slid onto the stool next to him, rapping his fingers lightly on the scarred countertop.
«Thomas Hale?» he asked without ceremony.
Hale flinched but didn’t turn.
«Who’s asking?»
«Mark Davis. Detective. I’m investigating Dylan Smith.»
At the name, Hale’s head snapped toward him, a flash of fear and anger lighting his eyes.
«I don’t know anything.»
Mark lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the bar’s stained mirror. «Come on, Hale. I wouldn’t be here if I thought you didn’t. You’ve got nothing to lose, and I just need a little information.»
Hale gripped his beer glass tightly, staring at the amber liquid. Finally, he spoke in a hoarse whisper.
«Dylan… he was too smart for this business. Too curious for his own good.»
«What did he find?»
Hale glanced around, his paranoia palpable, before leaning closer. «Epsilon isn’t just a trading platform. It’s a front. A storefront for something much bigger.»
«A game?»
«No, a machine. The people behind it – they aren’t traders. They manipulate the market, moving millions through «ghost’ trades. Dylan found something. Data that exposed how they did it. He said it could be sold – or destroyed.»
Mark took another drag, feeling a chill creep down his spine. «And?»
«And now he’s gone. You think that’s a coincidence?»
Hale downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp, his face pale. «Listen,» he continued, his voice barely audible. «You need to let this go. These people don’t just make people disappear – they erase them, along with every trace they ever existed.»
«Who are these people? Did you see them?» Mark pressed, leaning forward.
Hale shook his head. «No one sees them. They’re ghosts. But Dylan… he mentioned someone. A woman. He called her „The Fox.“»
Mark’s brow furrowed. «The Fox?»
«Yeah. He said she was one of them. The link between their world and ours.»
Mark finished his drink and stood, tossing some bills onto the counter. «If you remember anything else, find me.»
Hale nodded weakly, his face a mask of resignation. It was clear he had said all he was willing to.
The city grew quieter as Mark walked home, the cold air cutting through his coat. The name «The Fox» echoed in his mind like a stubborn riddle. He knew it was a key, but how to use it was still a mystery.
When he reached his apartment, he brewed a cup of coffee – strong and bitter – and fired up his aging laptop. The hum of the machine filled the silence as he scoured the web for any trace of «The Fox» or a woman connected to Epsilon. The search turned up nothing. A dead end.
Then his phone rang. The screen displayed an untraceable number.
«Hello?» he answered, wiping his hands on his jeans.
A gravelly, distorted voice greeted him. «You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.»
«Nice opener,» Mark said, lighting another cigarette. «Go on.»
«Walk away. While you still can.»
«And if I don’t?»
The line went quiet for a beat before the voice replied, heavy with menace. «Then you’ll disappear. Like the others.»
The call ended abruptly, leaving Mark staring at the phone as if it held answers. Taking a long drag, he looked out the window. The city continued its faceless existence, but somewhere in its shadows, a hunt had begun. He just wasn’t sure if he was the hunter – or the prey.
Chapter 4: Cryptocurrency and Blood
The morning light barely grazed the surface of gray concrete, casting the streets of New York in a cold, muted glow. The city was only just waking up, but Mark was already on the move. He sat behind the wheel of his aging Honda Civic, which rattled with every bump in the road. The jazz station on the radio played softly, though he wasn’t really listening. His mind was consumed by the name «Fox» and the mystery of who – or what – lay behind it.
The drive took him into Brooklyn, to one of those places that seemed unremarkable yet oddly magnetic. A café called The Rusty Cup had become a haven for crypto traders, freelancers, and other denizens