The hum of processors filled the cybercrimes unit. Rows of desks sat under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights, each one manned by detectives, analysts, and tech specialists who were hunched over monitors. On the far wall, a giant board displayed cryptocurrency wallets and transaction routes traced across a map.
At the top, bold figures stared down at them:
$12,547,389 — Anonymous Crypto Contributions (Dark Web)
Sergeant Kaelen Ward, her red hair tied back tight, stood in the middle of the room. She let her gaze sweep over the numbers, the lines of code, the names pinned to the board.
"That's what they made," she said flatly, "off the suffering of children."
Nobody replied. Fingers tapped keyboards, printers spat out reams of data, and the low murmur of voices continued.
An analyst stepped forward, a folder under his arm. "Ma'am, we've built a timeline from their server archives. They operated for five years. Three thousand six hundred and fifty videos posted — nearly one a day."
The weight of it pressed down on everyone in the room.
"Pattern?" Kaelen asked.
The analyst flipped to the first few pages. "First two hundred videos — same two kids every time. Ethan and Mina. Ages six and four when the first was recorded. Each video's thirty minutes long. We're not showing you the content — you don't need to see it to know what it is."
Kaelen's grip tightened on the back of a chair. "And after two hundred?"
"That's when they expanded the roster. Starting with video 201, other children appear. We've confirmed identities on nearly all of them — every one was reported missing within seven days of the upload date. Kidnapped to order."
A detective rolled over from another station, tablet in hand. "We've cross-matched the timestamps with open missing persons reports. It's too consistent to be chance."
The glass door opened, and two men entered. Suits. Crisp posture.
"Special Agent Donovan, FBI."
"Agent Ruiz, CIA."
Kaelen didn't turn to greet them. "You're late."
Donovan glanced at the wall display. "We were pulling intel from our end. You've got international routes here — Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, West Africa. It's a global chain."
Ruiz crossed to the map, pointing at several nodes. "These crypto wallets are bouncing transactions through shell accounts registered in jurisdictions that don't cooperate with U.S. law enforcement. We'll need interagency requests, possibly covert extraction of data."
Kaelen stepped aside for them to see the screen showing the first file — VID0001. "Mina and Ethan. Younger. This is how it started."
She clicked.
The freeze-frame of their faces — children staring toward the lens, too small for what this was — was enough.
Kaelen's pistol was out before the thought was conscious. The crack-crack-crack of her Five-seveN echoed through the room, the monitor shattering under the hail of bullets. Plastic and glass sprayed across the desk.
The smell of burnt circuitry hung heavy.
Holstering her weapon, she said, "We are not watching that. I don't care if it's evidence. That's the only frame anyone in this room needs to see."
The silence that followed was brittle.
Then she straightened. "I want every scrap of intel. I want the names of uploaders, the admins, the moderators. I want the domains they've cycled through, every IP they've masked. If there's a server in another country, flag it for seizure."
The room came alive with movement.
One cybertech called out, "We've got partial admin handles from an internal message board. Cross-referencing with handles on other known forums."
Another shouted, "One BTC wallet here's linked to an account used to rent a warehouse in Nevada — same leaseholder name as a storage unit in New Jersey."
Ruiz leaned over an analyst's shoulder. "This encryption key — where did you get it?"
"Off a packet capture from last night's sting. It's partial, but we can brute-force it in under two hours with the GPU cluster."
Kaelen moved between stations. "Every connection they had — find it. Friends, family, neighbors. Anyone who so much as bought coffee with one of these monsters."
Donovan checked his watch. "We're coordinating with Europol to seize mirrored servers. Once they're down, we'll lose live traffic, but we'll also force any remaining admins into the open."
A younger detective called from the back, "Ma'am — this is big. We've found transaction trails leading into a charity front in Florida. Could be laundering."
Kaelen scribbled the name on a legal pad. "Flag it for financial crimes. Get Treasury on the line."
Someone else: "Email lists from their darknet profile management tool. There's a couple dozen regular donors who've spent six figures each."
Kaelen's voice was cold. "Those people aren't donors. They're accomplices. Get their names ready for warrants."
Another update came in: "The original IP for their first upload came from a public library in Denver. We're checking CCTV from that day."
Ruiz tapped the table. "That's a drop point. Whoever uploaded that first file knew the system."
Kaelen paused. "Or… they were local. Mina was from the streets — Denver fits."
She looked over the room, the hum of servers and clack of keys surrounding them. "Last thing. We find the whistleblower. Someone inside that ring sent us their location. I want them found, and I want them safe. They bought us time — and thirty kids."
Later — Metro Police Headquarters
The waiting room was packed. Parents cried openly, clutching children they thought were gone forever. Some collapsed into chairs, too shaken to stand.
One boy buried his face into his mother's shoulder. A girl sobbed into her father's jacket. A toddler clung to an older sibling, refusing to let go.
In one corner, a detective guided a shy child toward a man in uniform. The man's eyes went wide, then wet, as he pulled the boy into a crushing hug.
Not everyone had someone waiting.
Ethan and Mina sat close on a bench, their hands clasped tightly. Mina's head leaned against Ethan's shoulder. Neither spoke.
Officer Lira, the green-haired woman from the raid, approached and crouched in front of them. "You're safe now," she said softly. "And you're stronger than anyone here knows."
Mina blinked slowly. Ethan kept staring at the floor.
She rested a hand gently on theirs. "You survived something no one should. That doesn't make you broken. It makes you unshakable."
Across the room, Kaelen watched the scene. She'd seen victims vanish into the cracks of the system before. Not this time.
Not while she was breathing.