[ACTIVATE SELF]

Maximus had once been a magnet in Silicon Valley,
never famous but known in its shadows and alleys.
His inventions had shaped systems, codes, and companies—
tools the world used without ever knowing him publicly.

But Max wasn’t a glutton for money; he never lusted for fame.
It was the craft that he loved, the innovation he craved.
But that all changed when the ugly truth was discovered:
the industry giants were using his tools to spy on the public.

Now, he moonlights as a sleuth, a private detective,
solving complex cases that the cops couldn’t crack—
like cybercrime and fraud orchestrated by exceptional hackers.
He enjoyed the analysis and how it kept his mind active,
but it was lacking in action and he needed a challenge.

That’s when he received an email attachment:

—
Subject: Suspicious Skydiving Accident

Maximus,

We have a case that requires your expertise.
Be advised, you may know the deceased.

Victim: Aleister Easton | Age: 53
Occupation: MetaTech V.P.

Aleister, a seasoned skydiver died in what seemed to be an accident,
but there’s something off about this tragic event.

We’ve attached footage retrieved from the scene.
Please review and share your findings with our team.

In solidarity,
Cpt. E.C. McCleen
San Diego P.D.
—

His heart sank. Aleister—Alex, as Max had known him,
had been a friend since their days spent at Princeton.
Back then, Alex was the epitome of precision:
a man who thrived on adrenaline yet never missed a step in business
or life. So, how had he died? Max didn’t hesitate.

He loaded the drone footage without delay,
his heart racing as he pressed play.

The video began grainy: Alex leaping from the plane,
a black silhouette against the endless blue terrain.
The camera shook violently, his arms opened up wide,
the parachute stowed tightly. He looked almost frozen in time,
like an eagle coasting—just floating in the sky.

Max pressed forward, then rewind. The footage slowed, no pandemonium yet,
it was eerily calm. Until Alex deployed the parachute,
and something went wrong. The ripcord jerked violently,
and the canopy ejected, but it didn’t bloom.

Instead, it collapsed inward like a defective or deflating balloon.
Max’s pulse spiked. Something wasn’t right. He zoomed in,
his focus tightening, scanning with microscopic sight.

Then he saw it.

A hand—fingers pulling the ripcord with surgical efficiency.
Max froze. That hand. It was etched into his photographic memory.
The fingers, the knuckles, the deliberate motion.

It was him. It was Ben.

An unexpected culprit.

Ben. His old rival.

The man who’d once torn apart systems with ruthless proficiency,
leaving nothing but chaos in the programming industry.
This wasn’t an accident. The parachute had been sabotaged intentionally.

Alex hadn’t fallen to fate, he’d been forced out of the sky
by a cold and calculated embrace.

Max rewound the footage, frame by frame.
The hand appeared again—it was unmistakable.

Sabotage.

An inconspicuous display of animosity and hate.
The police had missed it. But Max never overlooked
the finest details, laid bare, like the final pages of a book.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping sharply across the floor.
This wasn’t an accident. It was murder;
and Ben was the one pulling the cords
with a cold, brutal, premeditated decorum.