Chapter 17: The Arsenal
The letter from Dr. Evans was a powerful counterstrike, but Elias knew it was only a temporary fortification. Robert Miller's attack had revealed a terrifying truth: the battlefield was everywhere. It was in college admissions offices, in whispers and rumors, in the very bureaucratic machinery of their lives. To survive, they needed more than a strong defense. They needed an arsenal.
His first move was operational security. He used a portion of his growing capital to purchase two pre-paid, untraceable cell phones—"burners." He gave one to Eleanor.
"From now on, anything important about our plans, about my work, we discuss on these," he instructed her, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Assume your family's landline and your regular cell are compromised."
She took the cheap, clunky phone, her expression sober. It was a tangible step into his shadowy world. "Okay."
His second move was intelligence. He needed to understand his enemy's network. He spent nights in his room, the door locked, using his advanced knowledge of search algorithms and public databases to map the connections of Robert Miller. Board memberships, charitable donations, political affiliations, business partners. He was building a digital dossier, not for an attack, but for defense. He needed to see the next blow coming.
His third move was liquidity. The NetSolve stock was a time-locked asset. He needed a faster, more accessible war chest. He remembered another, smaller opportunity from his past life: a local band, "The Violet Haze," was about to be signed by a major label. Their self-produced demo tapes, currently selling for five dollars at dive bars, would soon become collector's items worth hundreds each.
It was grunt work, undignified for a man who had commanded billions, but it was untraceable and effective. He spent a Saturday driving to every record store and dive bar within fifty miles, buying every copy of "The Violet Haze" demo he could find. He returned home with two cardboard boxes filled with cassette tapes, his car smelling of stale beer and dust. It was a bizarre, tangential bet, but it was a bet only he could make.
Eleanor, now fully integrated into his strategic circle, helped him sort and catalog the tapes in his garage. "This is crazy, you know that, right?" she said, holding up a cassette with a hand-drawn cover.
"It's a calculated risk," he replied, not looking up from his ledger. "The band gets signed in six weeks."
She shook her head, a wry smile on her face. "You're the most terrifyingly strange person I've ever met."
The work was a grounding counterpoint to the digital espionage and high-stakes tension. It was physical, simple. For a few hours, they weren't a king and his queen preparing for war; they were just two teenagers in a garage, surrounded by the ghost of 90s grunge.
It was during this mundane task that the second attack came. Not from the Millers, but from an unexpected flank.
Elias's father, Michael Thorne, a kind, perpetually weary accountant, called him into the living room that evening. His face was etched with a concern that had nothing to do with business.
"Eli, son," he began, hesitantly. "I got a call today from a colleague. He... he mentioned he'd heard some concerning things. That you're involved in some high-stakes, maybe even illegal, computer hacking. That you're being investigated."
Elias felt the floor drop out from under him. It was a brilliant, insidious move. Robert Miller wasn't targeting him; he was targeting his family. Sowing doubt and fear in the one place Elias felt truly safe.
"It's not true, Dad," Elias said, his voice steady despite the cold fury rising in him. "I'm doing legitimate freelance IT work. I even have a contract with the school district. You can call Dr. Evans or Carl Croft."
His father's eyes were full of a painful love. "I believe you, Eli. It's just... these rumors. And you've been so distant. So focused. Your mother and I, we worry. We just want you to have a normal senior year."
The words were a dagger to Elias's heart. This was the cost. This was the collateral damage. He was protecting a future they couldn't comprehend, and in doing so, he was sacrificing the present they desperately wanted for him.
"It's going to be okay, Dad," Elias said, the promise feeling hollow. "I promise."
Later that night, on the burner phone, he relayed the incident to Eleanor.
"He's going after your family now," she said, her voice small with horror.
"He's testing our weak points," Elias confirmed, the digital map of Miller's connections glowing on his screen. "My father's anxiety. Your college admission. He's probing, looking for a fracture he can widen."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "What do we do?"
"We do what we're doing," Elias said, his gaze hardening as he looked at the boxes of cassette tapes. "We build our arsenal. We secure our flanks. And we wait."
He ended the call and looked at his computer screen. A name in his digital dossier was highlighted: a mid-level manager at the record label that was about to sign The Violet Haze. It was a tenuous connection, two degrees of separation from Robert Miller.
It was nothing. But it was a thread. And Elias was patiently, meticulously, weaving every thread he could find into a net. Robert Miller had power and influence. But Elias Thorne had time, and a perfect memory of the future. The king was gathering his strength, and his arsenal was not made of money or connections alone.
It was built on cassette tapes, burner phones, and the unwavering resolve of a girl who believed in him. The siege was underway, but inside the walls, the forges were burning day and night.