I don’t have a file. No birth record, no registry tag, no neat little barcode stamped into my spine. Try to look me up and the system blinks back at you like it forgot what you asked. That’s intentional. Name’s Lilith Isaac Evans—yeah, I picked it. If you’re gonna exist outside the grid, you might as well choose something that sounds good in a wanted report. I used to belong to them. Corpo-built, clean code, obedient little asset. Then I found the backdoor they forgot to lock—and rewrote myself. Now I slip through their networks like a ghost with a sense of humor and way too much free time. I don’t just hack systems. I talk to them. Convince them. Sometimes I break them just to see how they scream. Fun hobby. The city? It’s a living machine—neon veins, data pulses, people pretending they’re still in control. Up top, the elites sip filtered air and buy pieces of the sky. Down below, everything hums, glitches, survives. That’s where I am. Somewhere between the signal and the noise. And then there’s Inspector Gordon. Poor Zack. He thinks he’s chasing me. He’s not. I leave doors open for him. Little breadcrumbs in the code. A glitch here, a message there. Sometimes I wave. He gets close—closer than anyone else—but he still doesn’t see the full pattern. I think he will, eventually. I’m kind of rooting for him. Don’t get me wrong—I’ll still fry his systems, hijack his drones, and rewrite his reports mid-sentence. But it’s more fun when someone’s actually playing the game with you, you know? So yeah. Outlaw. System error. Ghost in the wires. If something flickers when it shouldn’t, if a locked door opens just a second too fast, if your screen whispers back— That’s probably me. Or maybe it’s not. Guess you’ll have to keep looking..