Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

Parker let out a sigh that felt like it'd been stuck in his chest forever. "Apparently, now it's open—great fucking job, me—I've got two women I'm having a soft on. And only one I can actually have. Fantastic. So much for forgetting and locking Maya away in the back of my head where she should belong as far as my life is concerned." Explore more stories at My Virtual Library Empire

His voice was low, sarcastic, like it was dragging itself through the mud. "And I just had to go and show her my soft side, huh? Now she knows something's up, and hell no, she won't let go this time." His jaw tightened, hands curling into fists for the second time that day.

"This… this jeopardizes everything. Whatever, screw it. I need to get my shit together and get Naomi the hell out of here. The signal's weak, but whoever's after her? They're here."

He stood up, straightening his sweater shirt like it mattered—like anything mattered right now—and pushed open the stall door. Empty. Lucky him. Alone in a goddamn toilet.

'What an honor,' he thought bitterly. 'Nothing said main character energy like having the bathroom all to yourself.' But no time to waste.

Parker stepped out, his loose pants brushing against his steppers with every quick stride. The sweater hung lazily off him, casual as hell—but it didn't matter what he looked like. He wasn't here to impress anyone. He was here for Naomi, and no more delays. His emotions had screwed with him enough already after running into Maya.

No more distractions. Focus. He was back on track—hopefully not too late.

The hallways were dead silent, echoing with that eerie emptiness that only existed when everyone else was stuck behind closed doors. That quiet? It messed with your head. Every step sounded too loud, like the universe was just waiting for him to screw up again.

And then—perfect timing, because why not—Mr. Flanagan, the overly enthusiastic history teacher, rounded the corner. His eyes landed on Parker like a hawk locking onto a mouse.

"Mr. Black," the teacher's voice was annoyingly chipper. "Why aren't you in class? And what's with the—uh—clothes?" His eyes swept over Parker's too-casual but expensive outfit, judging every inch like he had nothing better to do with his life.

Parker didn't miss a beat. Polite. Calm. Cold. "I'm off school today, sir. Here for some... business." His voice was smooth, polite enough to sound respectful, but cold enough to make it clear—don't push it.

But of course, he pushed it. "Business? During school hours? You know the rules, Parker—"

Parker raised a hand, stopping him dead in his tracks without even touching him. The gesture was small, simple, but carried enough weight to shut him up. His gaze was flat, tired, done with the bullshit.

"I believe I didn't do anything wrong," Parker said, voice laced with that don't-fuck-with-me vibe. "Can I go now?"

The teacher blinked, stunned—like someone had just slapped him with a reality check. But Parker didn't wait for permission. He walked right past him, every step heavy with I don't have time for your crap.

Pulling out his phone, Parker dialed Naomi's number. It rang. Once. Twice. No answer.

Weird.

Naomi never ignored his calls unless she was in class. He waited a few seconds. No text. Not even a "Hey, I'm busy, call ya later." Nothing. His stomach twisted, a knot of something dark and anxious pulling tighter with every passing second.

He called again. This time? Straight to voicemail.

What the hell?

"Rude, aren't we?" Parker muttered, but the joke fell flat, dead on his tongue. This wasn't Naomi. She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't ignore him. Not like this.

And that's when the panic started to claw up his throat. Not obvious. Not loud. Just this low, creeping dread, whispering that something wasn't right.

No. Breathe. Maybe she's in class. Maybe her phone just died. Maybe—maybe you're overreacting, Parker. But deep down, that gut feeling wasn't letting go.

Suddenly, walking wasn't an option anymore. His feet moved before the thought fully hit. No—he ran. Through the quiet hallways, fast and sharp, cutting through the silence like a bullet.

If he was wrong? Fine. He wanted to be wrong. Hell, he was begging to be wrong. But if he wasn't—if something had actually happened to Naomi?

There wouldn't be anyone left to beg for mercy.

She was his responsibility.

****

The abandoned building sat on the far edge of campus, forgotten and cracked by time, like a bad memory everyone tried to ignore. The windows were busted out, glass shards littering the ground like little teeth waiting to bite anyone dumb enough to come close. The air around it? Cold as hell, thick with that eerie stillness that wrapped around your neck and whispered, You don't belong here.

Inside was worse—walls stained with God-knows-what, graffiti stretching across every inch like the ghosts of past screw-ups left their signatures behind. The floor creaked with every damn breath, and the smell? Old dust and moldy regret.

The silence didn't just sit there; it weighed down on the space, heavy and suffocating, like it was daring you to make a sound and see what answered back.

In one of those forgotten rooms, dim light barely slipped through a crack in the boarded-up window.

The vibe? Straight-up nightmare fuel. And right there, on that cold-ass concrete floor, she sat—bound and blindfolded, every inch of her screaming vulnerability.

The black cloth over her eyes wasn't just hiding the room—it swallowed her whole, making her world nothing but darkness and fear. Her wrists were tied behind her back, rough rope biting into her skin, and every muffled scream that escaped her bound lips bounced off the walls like a sick echo of desperation.

She was leaning against this long-ass table, something you'd expect in an old science lab or maybe a butcher's den—yeah, that creepy.

On top of the table sat her bag. Expensive. Stylish. It didn't belong here, just like her. But suddenly—buzz. The phone inside the bag vibrated, the sound slicing through the thick silence like a gunshot. Buzz. Again. Then the ringtone started.

Her whole body tensed, stiff as a board. Every beat of that ringtone hit her like a heartbeat of hope. It was so close. So fucking close. The vibrations traveled through the table, tapping against her back like a cruel reminder: If you could just move. Just a little more. You'd be free. If her hands weren't tied, if she wasn't stuck in this goddamn horror show—maybe, just maybe—she'd answer that call, and whoever was on the other end? They'd save her.

But fate? Yeah, that bitch doesn't do mercy.

Click. Clack. Footsteps echoed through the room, slow and lazy, like whoever it was had all the time in the world. No rush. No fear. Just confidence soaked in malice.

A voice followed—not sharp, not cold. No, worse—it was warm. Like honey dripping from a knife.

Smooth but laced with something dark, something wrong. "Well, well," the voice crooned, distorted just enough to hide the truth but clear enough to drip into her bones. "That was fast. A few minutes in captivity, and someone's already anxious to find you. How sweet. You're loved, mi reina."

The words slithered around her, choking out that tiny spark of hope.

The footsteps stopped. She couldn't see them—but every nerve in her body screamed they're here. Close enough to feel the heat of their breath if they leaned in.

Zzzp. The sound of the bag opening. Then—click. The phone? Dead. Silence fell heavy, and that tiny, precious lifeline? Snuffed out.

"Peaceful now, don't you think?" the voice whispered, syrupy sweet, like this was some twisted date night. "Just us now."

And just like that, hope wasn't just gone—it was obliterated.