Reed weaved through the crowds in Bratislava’s airport, trying to go unnoticed. He knew the agency’s eyes were everywhere—security cameras, guards, even ordinary passengers could be operatives ready to report his movements. As he scanned the terminals, he spotted a flight attendant going into the men’s room. An idea formed.

  Reed followed him in, approaching the sinks where the attendant was washing his hands with a faraway look. Reed slipped into role easily. “Long layover?” he asked casually, looking in the mirror.

  The attendant nodded, looking at Reed through the reflection. “Yeah, heading to Atlanta eventually. Have a couple hours to kill first.”

  Reed nodded back, looking thoughtful, his mind already racing. An ID badge was clipped to the attendant’s uniform—giving him access to the next available flight. For Reed, it was a ticket to Vienna. He knew how to play this.

  As the attendant dried his hands, Reed reached for his camera bag and swung it up, bumping into the attendant just enough to snatch his ID badge. “Oh, sorry about that! Guess I’m travel-weary.”

  “No problem,” the attendant said, barely looking down.

  As they exited, Reed smiled and said, “Safe flight!” The attendant waved, none the wiser.

  Reed walked fast, ducking into a quiet area near the gates. He scanned for flights to Vienna—one was leaving in 20 minutes, three gates down. Perfect.

  He mentally noted the attendant’s uniform: white shirt, navy pants, unremarkable. Reed pulled out a white shirt from his bag. Not a match, but with a few smudges and a slept-in look, he could pass for an attendant who overslept.

  One more thing: Reed reached into his bag and pulled out a thin, customized sticker, a photo of himself—one he kept just for situations like this. He stuck it over the photo on the stolen ID badge and turned himself into his temporary alias: “Evan Taylor.” Reed blended in with the airport traffic and approached the Vienna gate, ID badge in hand and looking slightly annoyed, like he was running late. The gate agent barely looked up as he flashed his ID and nodded toward the plane. He was on his way to Vienna, ahead of his pursuers, and felt he was getting closer to figuring out PPI’s real game.

  As he settled into the plane, Reed knew every move from here had to be precise and calculated. He knew he had only a short time to stay hidden. But as the plane took off, he relaxed a bit.

  With the plane’s Wi-Fi, Reed logged into Pro4uM.com under a private network, erasing all digital footprints. He knew the site’s rule: every operative had to use their real, full name for accountability—a rule strictly enforced.

  The administrator, Tammy Stark, was someone Reed knew well. They’d dated briefly, although it was more about strategic positioning—a calculated move for a situation exactly like this.

  Reed thought back to the time they had dated. Tammy was gorgeous with long brown hair and a shapely figure. Reed looked at himself in his phone’s darkened screen and was under no illusion about himself. He wasn’t handsome or memorable—average height, average build, average face. Nothing distinct, nothing that would linger in someone’s memory. And that, he reminded himself, was exactly what made him perfect for this job.

  The only distinctive feature he’d ever had—bright red hair in his youth—had long since faded to a dull red and white mix, a result of years of stress and the duality of PPI life. Even his beard, hovering between goatee and full beard, was the same dull color. His appearance was the epitome of unremarkable, which was exactly how he liked it. Reed knew he needed a different approach to get Tammy’s attention. So, he became an active listener, remembering the small things—her favorite coffee order, her sister’s upcoming wedding, her childhood dream of being a concert pianist. He asked thoughtful questions about her photography, praised her artistry and feigned interest in the technical aspects of her work. While other men might ogle her beauty, Reed made her feel seen and understood. He never mentioned Pro4uM unless she brought it up and carefully cultivated the image of someone more interested in her mind than her position. Every remembered detail and spontaneous gesture of kindness had been orchestrated but to Tammy it had all seemed genuine.

  Tammy was precise, capable and dedicated to her work but Reed had noticed she trusted easily. Early on he started building on that trust. He was pretty sure Tammy wasn’t a PPI agent; if anything, she was another innocent pawn on the board, managing Pro4uM.com with a well-meaning diligence she thought was just for networking among photographers.

  One evening as they had dinner, Tammy left her phone on the table and got up to go to the bathroom. Reed had been waiting for this moment. Over their past few dates, he’d been watching her unlock pattern—always the same four digits, 8-2-9-4, tapped out unconsciously whenever she checked her messages.

  In that window of opportunity Reed acted. He entered the code and as he’d expected her phone’s password manager had stored all her login credentials including access to Pro4uM’s admin panel. Within seconds he’d created a covert login under the bland alias “John Smith”. Unremarkable, forgettable and camouflaged among thousands of other monitored accounts.

  Reed had never used this account before—he’d saved it for a time when going undetected would mean the difference between staying hidden and being caught. Now was that time. He logged in as John Smith and scoured the hidden threads and encrypted channels of Pro4uM, knowing this was where PPI operatives and admins hid mission-critical info behind innocuous sounding photography discussions. Each post looked normal on the surface, titles like “Best Lighting for Portraits” or “Posing Tips for Professionals” but Reed had trained long enough with PPI to recognize certain phrasing, strange responses at odd hours and unusual terminology held a much deeper meaning.

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  As Reed clicked through the coded posts his gut tightened. Thread after thread subtle messages emerged, he hadn’t noticed before, each one hidden in bland-sounding posts. So many pointed directly at him—posts scattered across the forum in such a way only an insider would recognize. In a thread on “Models” he found a series of cryptic phrases, each one tied to dates and times that eerily matched events in his current timeline. This was no coincidence. Each post left behind subtle breadcrumbs—a method he recognized as classic PPI misdirection meant to disguise info from anyone not trained to see it.

  A familiar name caught Reed’s eye: Barry Cox, known within PPI as “The Architect”. An exceptional photographer from Tulsa, Cox ran his portrait studio with military precision. His knack for orchestrating complex ops and managing resources made him essential to the agency. He didn’t just take photos—he built things: plans, networks, careers. And he made sure every outcome was perfect.

  The more Reed thought about it the clearer it was: Barry Cox was the architect of this whole web, pulling the strings that had ensnared Reed from the start.

  The forum posts followed a familiar pattern—hiding in plain sight under threads any photographer would casually scroll past. But Reed recognized the outline of a hidden message, invisible to the untrained eye. It was classic PPI strategy: sensitive intel buried in plain view, accessible only to those trained to sift through the mundane to find the hidden.

  One post stood out—a seemingly innocent tutorial on posing hands. But coming from Barry Cox a man who dealt in power plays not posing tips every word carried weight. The post’s date matched the Kessler assignment. Reed decoded Barry’s metaphors: ‘thumbs back, fingers forward’ meant keep calm and move slowly under surveillance; ‘touch only at fingertips’ meant minimal contact; ‘if you lean on something lean on it—don’t hug it’ meant don’t form attachments. The message was clear: stay isolated, trust no one, keep distance. Classic Barry—hiding directives in plain sight while preparing Reed for a solo mission.

  But why take such care to isolate him? The answer hit Reed like a punch: Barry wasn’t protecting him—he was setting him up.

  Reed continued to dig through Pro4uM.com, sifting through posts layered in double meanings. Another thread caught his eye: “Composition Tips for Event Photography”. At first glance it seemed to cover the basics—how to get candid shots, manage lighting in large venues and other general advice for event photographers. But as Reed read further, he found a post from Barry Cox about a specific piece of equipment: the Kessler Crane.

  The post started with a technical description of the Kessler Crane and how it allowed photographers to have smooth and precise movements and get the perfect vantage point for capturing large events. Cox had written, “A Kessler Crane lets you control every angle, keep the whole scene in front of you even when your subject moves. It’s all about setting the right perspective while staying out of the picture yourself.”

  To an untrained eye it was just equipment advice but Reed saw through the lines. The crane’s purpose was clear: it allowed someone to direct focus without being in the frame. This was all part of a calculated op where someone high up was manipulating the angles, controlling the narrative and keeping their own involvement hidden.

  Further down in the post Cox expanded, “For best results position yourself above the crowd where you can see everything yet no one sees you. This vantage point gives you complete oversight without interference. The Kessler Crane is perfect for those times when you need to manage the scene without becoming part of it.”

  Reed shivered. The words matched his assignment. His role at Kessler’s event wasn’t about the photos at all—it was about creating a controlled environment where something else could happen. Reed was meant to be the Kessler Crane, controlling the angle, giving PPI the perfect cover for a covert op that couldn’t be traced back to them. In the last line Cox had written: “Sometimes it’s not what you capture, but what you keep hidden that tells the real story.”

  Reed’s mind was racing as the pieces fell into place. PPI didn’t need Kessler’s event photographed. They didn’t need Reed to pass a message. They needed him as a distraction—an expendable pawn while they facilitated an intel leak under the cover of diplomacy. And they’d done it all without him knowing it, casting him as the “crane” in their composition. If he was caught or killed PPI would brand him a traitor, their hands clean, their narrative airtight.

  This wasn’t a mission—it was a setup. And Cox or someone was pulling the strings.

  But realization brought resolve. Reed’s mission wasn’t about objectives anymore—it was about exposure and survival. Now it was his chance to flip the script before the puppet master cut the final string.

  Reed had an epiphany: if Barry had built such an elaborate web its structure could be turned against him. Pro4uM was once a liability now could be used as a tool—a stage where Reed could rewrite the script.

  Knowing he was being watched Reed began to plant misinformation. He created ordinary looking posts on Pro4uM hiding coded hints that would only stand out to PPI operatives. Each post was bait: a mention of the “golden hour” near a Vienna landmark, a lighting setup for “urban shots”. Casual photographers would see nothing; PPI would see breadcrumbs leading to a specific time and place.

  He even mentioned the “Box Gallery” a supposed safe house tied to his cover. Everything pointed to controlled meeting points designed to pull Barry’s attention to where Reed wanted him.

  When he hit post he felt a sense of satisfaction. For the first time he didn’t feel like a pawn being moved—he was a player playing the game. Every word every phrase was a thread in his own web giving him time and space to stay ahead.

  The student had become the master.

  Barry Cox had been more than a mentor—he’d been Reed’s north star. His mastery of light, his flawless execution of every scene, his tactical brilliance in the field—Reed had wanted to be all of those things. But now that admiration had curdled into something more sinister. Every lesson, every shared secret, every earned bit of trust had been used against him. Barry had spent years training the perfect fall guy: someone skilled enough to be useful, loyal enough to follow orders, yet dumb enough to miss the trap until it was too late.

  As the plane landed in Vienna Reed logged off and stowed his laptop. Stepping off the plane with practiced calm his movements were smooth but his mind was racing ahead.

  First step: get the weapon from Terminal 3. Then use everything Barry had taught him—every technique, every shadow game—to dismantle the trap piece by piece.

  Barry had built a complex web. But he’d made one critical mistake: he’d taught Reed too well.