The hum of Seattle's neon-drenched streets filtered through the cracked window of Ethan Carter's basement apartment, a faint buzz that blended with the whir of his overclocked rig. The glow of three monitors bathed the room in cold blue light, casting sharp shadows across the cluttered desk—empty energy drink cans, tangled cables, and a half-eaten sandwich he'd forgotten about hours ago. Ethan's fingers flew across the keyboard, lines of code scrolling like a digital river. He was in the zone, a dark web ghost known as "Specter," slicing through firewalls for a paycheck. Tonight's gig was simple: crack a biotech firm's server, grab some experimental drug data, and sell it to a faceless client. Routine. Profitable. Done.

He'd just breached the second layer of encryption when a sharp knock rattled the steel door. Ethan froze, his hands hovering over the keys. "Who the hell knocks at 2 a.m.?" he muttered, glancing at the security feed on his secondary monitor. The grainy image showed an empty hallway, the flickering bulb overhead painting it in shades of gray. Another knock, louder this time. Grumbling, he grabbed the baseball bat leaning against his chair—a relic from a life before the dark web—and shuffled to the door.