POV: Mark Müller
Tuesday morning.
Mark sat in a small, overly bright meeting room with his third coffee of the day in hand, watching legal and finance butt heads like bulls over a policy brief. The fine print on what they were even allowed to say was already half a nightmare.
Technically, yes — what this Wintershade person had done was illegal. Unauthorized intrusion, use of internal test environments, no contract or non-disclosure agreement. If they wanted to press charges, they probably could.
But Mark didn't care.
The ten percent preview she had sent had already forced a full weekend crisis response. And if her claim of "just ten percent" held up, then what she had in that dokument could be catastrophic. Or revolutionary. Depending on who got it first.
He slammed his mug down on the table. "Let's be clear: if this goes public before we patch it, we're screwed. If someone else buys the rest and exploits it, we're screwed. If we go after her legally and then try to use the data? We're screwed and sued. So let's skip the moral debate and focus on acquisition."
The legal team muttered. Finance groaned. Compliance whispered about due process.
He pushed until he got what he needed: a green light on a payment range. No hard limit, but approval to go into six digits. That was enough.
He left the room, adjusted his tie in the reflection of the hallway window, and took a breath. Show time.
POV: Max
Tuesday, around 12:30 PM.
I paced in my apartment like a caged rat, heart thudding like a second heartbeat in my ears.
This was it. My first real meeting. With a bank. About a giant pile of secrets I had no legal right to have — and somehow they were willing to pay me for it.
I had showered twice. Brushed my hair into something that didn't scream 'perpetual all-nighter.' My "best" outfit was a washed-out hoodie with no holes and jeans that only had three visible ones. My sneakers had been through a war, but they were clean.
I packed my decaying laptop, triple-checked the 4,021 pages of printouts (because what if they thought I was bluffing?), and zipped my old canvas backpack shut.
Then I spent the next hour wrestling with NationalRail's idea of public transportation. The train came ten minutes late, the next one was cancelled, and my bus smelled like boiled cabbage and existential despair.
Still, I made it.
The FalkenBank building looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. All glass, steel, and people in clothes that cost more than my rent.
I walked in like I belonged, chin up, trying not to let the security guy's squint get to me.
"Wintershade," I said at the reception desk.
The woman behind the counter typed something, gave me a once-over, and forced a polite smile. "Please wait. You're expected."
Five minutes later, I was escorted into a sleek conference room. Oak table. Leather chairs. Wall-sized digital display. Bottled water. Sandwiches.
Sandwiches.
No one said I couldn't eat, so I didn't ask. The silence in the room was heavy with that expensive kind of air that only rich buildings have. I took another bite of my sandwich, trying to chew with at least some dignity as the door creaked open.
Mark Müller stepped in, gray suit crisp, clipboard in hand. He approached, extended his hand with a firm but polite nod. "Mark Müller, Head of IT Security at FalkenBank. Thank you for coming in today, Miss Wintershade."
I wiped my fingers quickly on a napkin and took his hand. "Thanks for having me. Sorry, I didn't realize the meeting would come with lunch."
He gave a short chuckle and sat across from me. "Glad to see someone enjoys the catering. Let's begin."
We started formally—introductions, thank-yous, a few shallow exchanges about the weather and public transport. Then his tone shifted.
"Miss Wintershade," he said, folding his hands. "We're very grateful for the information you've shared so far. But I hope you understand that what you did—unauthorized access to our systems—is technically illegal."
I nodded, keeping my voice calm. "Absolutely. But I also know that zero-days can be either problems or opportunities. You now have a chance to fix your vulnerabilities without reputational damage. I figured you'd prefer that."
He studied me a second longer, then nodded. "You mentioned your submission represented just ten percent of your findings?"
I reached into my bag and pulled out the heavy binder, setting it down on the table with a solid thud. His eyes widened.
"This," I said, "is the rest."
He stared for a moment before regaining his composure. "Very well. Let's talk numbers."
"Let's."
He opened with five hundred thousand euros.
I blinked.
That was more than triple what I dared to imagine. But I had to keep my composure. I crossed one leg over the other, tried not to visibly sweat.
"I appreciate the offer," I said evenly. "But considering the volume, depth, and potential impact of the information—not to mention the legal risk I've shouldered—I think 1.1 million would be more appropriate."
His brows lifted. "That's... ambitious."
"It's also exactly what my university claims I owe them," I said. "It would clear me. Seems fair."
He chuckled faintly, then countered: "600,000."
I held my ground. "950."
He adjusted his cuffs. "700."
I leaned forward slightly. "890."
"760," he said, firm. "That's as high as I can go with immediate sign-off."
My heart thudded once—hard.
That was still more than I ever thought I'd see in one place.
I paused just long enough to appear like I was considering it. Then I nodded. "760, and we have a deal."
He extended his hand again, and we shook on it.
He added one more condition. "We'd prefer exclusivity."
I hesitated. "Can't do that. If other banks are vulnerable, I need the freedom to help them too. No offense."
He didn't like it, but he accepted it. I think part of him respected it.
The legal paperwork was quick and efficient. I handed over the files, both paper and digital. He scanned them, nodded, and locked the USB in a drawer.
We were done.
Outside, the air felt sharper. Cleaner. I had a future now. A number in my head that didn't make me want to cry.
Before heading home, I walked straight to KreisTrust — my local bank branch with all the charm of a 1970s dentist office.
I waited. For a long, long time.
When I finally sat down with the advisor, I explained the incoming transfer. Showed her the contract.
She blinked hard at the number.
"Seven hundred sixty thousand?"
I nodded. "And possibly more soon."
She tapped away at her terminal like it owed her money.
"We'll flag your account to avoid interruptions," she said. "Also, there's a pending claim from your university for 1.1 million. Would you like to discuss financing options?"
I exhaled. "Yes. Please."
She started the paperwork. Told me they'd run a check, but it looked promising.
I left with a folder in hand and a weight slightly lighter on my chest.
At home, I dropped everything and called the nightclub manager.
"I quit."
"What? Now?"
"Yes. Now."
He yelled. I hung up.
I took a hot shower. Made myself some half-decent food. And then, for the first time in… years?
I went to bed early.
And I slept like someone who finally had a fighting chance.