Chapter 2: The Perfect Mark

Background checks here are a blood sport. They know your secrets before you do. I’d accepted that the day I crossed the line.

He pulled the gun away. Mr. Blake wiped it off with a handkerchief. “Maya, just do your job.”

He stepped back, holstered the gun, and wiped the barrel with a crisp white handkerchief. Like nothing had happened. I let out a slow breath, my legs finally unclenching.

I wiped the sweat off my brow, relieved to have made it through another day. Since coming here, my only goal is to survive one more day—because that’s hard enough.

Every day is a coin toss. You wake up, you hustle, you hope you don’t piss off the wrong person. Survival is the only prize that matters.

Fireworks exploded over the compound, celebrating the $600,000 haul. Each boom cost a couple grand. Whenever someone scored big, there’d be fireworks. The bursts lit up my eyes.

The sky above the compound burst into color, reds and blues and golds. The sound rattled the windows. It was over-the-top, the kind of thing you’d see at a small-town Fourth of July. Only here, the celebration was blood money.

In the darkness, I didn’t flinch.

I watched the sparks fade, my face expressionless. I’d seen bigger fireworks at funerals.

I turned down the two days off Mr. Blake offered. Usually, after a big score, they let you out to hit the strip mall or whatever, but I didn’t want to go anywhere. I just sat at my computer and kept working.

The idea of leaving the compound, even for a day, made my skin crawl. The outside world felt farther away than ever. I’d rather stay busy, keep my head down, and avoid drawing attention.

My only request was to pick my next mark myself. Every move was on camera, so I couldn’t pull anything. They agreed.

I made it sound casual, but it was calculated. If I picked the mark, I controlled the pace. Still, the cameras tracked every keystroke. No room for mistakes.

I typed in a string of numbers I’d memorized by heart. Up popped a fiery anime avatar with the username “ReaperX.”

The profile picture was all neon hair and oversized sword, the kind of thing you’d see plastered on a Comic-Con badge. I smiled to myself. This one was personal.

Ricky wandered over, frowning. “Anime? That’s your mark? Don’t you know those anime avatar types are always broke and a pain in the ass?”

He leaned over my shoulder, chewing on a toothpick. “You sure about this, Maya? They’re all broke kids living in their mom’s basement.”

I smiled. “He’s different.”

My voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. Ricky shrugged, not convinced, but he didn’t argue.

I sent a friend request, with the note: Call of Duty. He accepted almost instantly and messaged, “Who are you?”

The reply was fast, almost eager. I could picture him, maybe a little lonely, maybe just bored. Either way, he took the bait.

“Didn’t you sign up for a free Call of Duty skin?”

It was the oldest trick in the book, but it worked more often than you’d think. Gamers love free stuff.

He replied no, and I left it at that. For the next few days, I focused on building up my Instagram story, all about game perks—posting screenshots of giveaways to fans who liked my posts.

I crafted the perfect online persona—fun, generous, a little quirky. My stories were full of giveaways, pixelated confetti, and just enough humblebrag to seem real. People love a winner.

Five days later, ReaperX liked my story. I smiled. The fish was biting.

A little dopamine hit. He was hooked, whether he knew it or not. I played it cool, but inside, I was already planning my next move.

I played the part of a young woman entrepreneur, giving back to fans, writing heartfelt posts about my childhood gaming obsession, and told everyone I was starting a group to do raffles every now and then.

My posts were a mix of nostalgia and hustle—pictures of old consoles, stories about midnight gaming marathons. I built trust, one emoji at a time.

Sure enough, late at night, ReaperX joined the Messenger group. There were forty people—thirty-eight were our sock accounts, plus me and him.

The group chat was chaos—memes, fake excitement, inside jokes. I kept the energy high, always responding, always present. It was all smoke and mirrors.

Mr. Blake would sometimes watch from upstairs, his office like a warden’s perch. I could feel his eyes on me sometimes, but I never slipped. Not once.

Every morning when I woke up, I grabbed my work phone. My notebook was full of detailed notes on my marks—color-coded tabs, sticky notes, the whole nine yards.

While the others were hustling to rope people into online gambling, I just managed my Instagram, shared the latest skin news, and even played both sides—posing as a fan asking and answering questions. Anything to hype up the giveaways.

He was always first to like, first to comment. I waited for the perfect moment—a new skin, limited release, impossible to resist.

“Congrats, you’re today’s lucky winner.”

I used lots of exclamation points, threw in a confetti GIF. People love to feel chosen.

He replied right away: “No way, for real?”

I could almost hear the disbelief in his voice. That’s when you know you’ve got them.

I told him the ops staff was off tonight, so I couldn’t send it yet, and to ping me in the morning. Then I posted about his win in my story, tagging him. He even commented: “So lucky.”

I made it public, let everyone see his excitement. That’s how you build FOMO. The group buzzed with fake congratulations.

At six the next morning, he messaged me. I’d been up, but waited till eight to send him a QR code.

Timing is everything. Too eager, and you look desperate. I made him wait, then sent the code with a little wink emoji.

The tech team had set it up—after scanning, it went to the official Call of Duty page, asking for Facebook login and a verification code. Perfect fonts, real logos, even a fake loading bar.

He sent the code without thinking. The link wasn’t for the game—it was a payment link. As soon as he entered the code, I saw that fat balance.

The numbers rolled in, and I felt the rush. Even after all this time, it still gave me a high.

I sent him a screenshot showing the skin delivered. He was confused: “I didn’t get anything?”

His confusion was genuine. I played dumb, typing fast, pretending to troubleshoot. The more lost he got, the more he leaned on me.

Now I played surprised. After checking, I told him a system glitch froze both our accounts, and he should contact support. Lots of sad face emojis.

Of course, support was me. ReaperX messaged me in a panic.

He messaged the support account, his words frantic. I kept the tone professional, sympathetic, like a customer service rep who actually cares.

I said to unfreeze the account, they needed his ID and a redeposit of the frozen amount. He hesitated, but in the end, he sent everything I asked for.

After transferring $80, ReaperX got anxious, asking why nothing was back yet. I told him it wasn’t enough and asked if he could find a way. “System error, try again.”

Just then, some chat messages popped up in the group.

My sock puppets went to work, filling the chat with fake success stories and encouragement. The group buzzed with excitement.

“Did everyone get their skin from big sis?”

“Yeah, I already used it in battle. It’s awesome. Thanks, big sis.” Attached was a game screenshot.

“I got mine too, but my account glitched and got frozen. I even hit up support, but they comped me $150, lol.”

That was me, under the name DutyKing. Two minutes later, ReaperX tagged DutyKing.

He was desperate for validation. I made sure DutyKing replied fast, all confidence and swagger.

“Bro, mine’s frozen too. Is support legit? What if I don’t unfreeze it?”

He was starting to panic, looking for a lifeline. I threw him one.

DutyKing vouched for support, told him to hit up your parents if he had to, and there’d be cashback.

“Trust me, man, they always come through. Just gotta push through the system. You’ll get it back double.”

In the end, ReaperX sent another $300. As promised, I gave him the skin and tossed in a $75 cashback.

I made it look like a favor, a special deal just for him. He thanked me, relief flooding his messages.

Sometimes I’d send Starbucks e-gift cards in the group, and every time, ReaperX was the luckiest. He trusted me more and more, and I led him along, step by step.

I even threw in a few inside jokes, made him feel like part of the family. That’s how you build loyalty.

He told me his mom was always busy at court, never paid him any attention. I pretended to sympathize, but really, I stoked his resentment. He was already moody, and the more I comforted him, the more rebellious he got.

I listened, offered sympathy, even sent him memes about annoying parents. He ate it up. The more he vented, the more I fed the fire.

“That old witch, I think she’s just cheap. She stole so much but won’t give me a dime.”

He ranted late into the night, voice messages full of anger and loneliness. I let him go on, never judging, always agreeing.

Yeah, old witch.

I typed the words with a little smile, playing along. It was too easy.

Suddenly I remembered—after that hearing, I was crouched outside the courthouse, bruised and battered. Judge Harper came out in her black robe.

The memory hit like a sucker punch. The courthouse steps were slick with rain, my arms covered in bruises. Judge Harper’s heels clicked on the concrete, her robe trailing behind her like a shadow.

I rushed over and grabbed her sleeve. “Judge, they’re all lying. You have to believe me—these bruises prove it.”

My voice was hoarse, desperate. I could still feel the fabric of her sleeve, stiff and cold under my fingers.

Her face was cold, with a hint of disgust. She told me the hearing was over.

She didn’t even look at me, just brushed me off like lint. Her eyes were hard, unmoved.

“Your parents already took the money. Get lost.”

Her words cut deeper than any bruise. I remember the way she turned away, her robe swirling behind her, the finality in her voice.

Her son was playing games as he walked by, so zoned out he tripped over me. He got pissed, kicked me, and called me a bitch for messing up his game.

He was just a kid, but mean as a rattlesnake. The kick left a mark. His words left a scar.

Snapped out of it, I smiled and sent a sigh emoji. In the days that followed, we talked about everything.

I shook off the memory, typing out a quick emoji to ReaperX. Our chats got longer, more personal. He told me secrets, I told him lies.

I pretended to be close, gave him plenty of chances for cashbacks and skins, and told him not to brag in the group or people would say I was playing favorites. He agreed, practically buzzing.

He promised to keep it quiet, like we shared a secret. I made him feel special, and he loved it.

Two weeks later, a limited skin dropped. As expected, he came to me again.

He was first in line, eager to spend. I could see the hunger in his messages.

I told him that for $1,500, he’d get $3,000 in game credits; for $8,000, $16,000—and the minimum for this skin was $8,000. The higher the price, the sweeter the deal.