HOPE
I've fucking tried to track the IP address of the Whistle account three times now. Each time, I hit a digital dead end—rerouted servers, masked pings, and once, it even bounced me to a random IP in Iceland. Whoever's behind it knows how to cover their tracks.
But hell, I'm about to show them just how persistent I can be.
I slide into my desk chair after a five-minute stretch, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I boot up my laptop.
I open the trace logs from earlier this week—the ones that led nowhere. But this time, I don't go through public servers.
I tap into Asher's backdoor tracker—the one that earned him a permanent black mark on his record and a weird kind of respect from the school back in high school. It's unstable as hell, but it works when it wants to—and now it fucking has to work.
