Story code: ST-001205
Part 3: The Network Trail
Clara stepped toward the AV booth door and knocked twice on the glass. When I slid the panel open, she did not look me in the eye. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the concrete floor. “Sam, bring the network access log down here,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, forced whisper. “We need to verify the external IP address that hijacked my son’s device so we can file the report.”
I grabbed the administrative tablet and walked out into the narrow hallway behind the stage. Two senior heritage committee members, Arthur Gable and Beatrice Vance-Cole, stood under the flickering fluorescent light, their leather-bound logbooks held against their chests. Leo stood against the cinderblock wall, his thumbs twitching against his thighs. His collar was damp with sweat.
“Show them the spoofed signal,” Clara said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the warm tone she used at the podium.
I unlocked the tablet and held it out so they could all see the active connection panel. The screen displayed the device name: “Leo’s iPhone.” Below it, the system status showed a direct, un-spoofed local MAC address matching the hardware ID of the phone in Leo’s pocket. There were no foreign routing hops.
Arthur leaned in, adjusting his reading glasses. He pointed a dry finger at the connection line. “That doesn’t look like an external server, Clara. That’s a local address. And what is it transmitting right now?”
On the screen, the data packets were labeled under an active API session: “instagram.com/accounts/login/session_id_oakcreekcringe.”
Leo’s breath caught. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the phone, and began tapping the screen with frantic, erratic movements.
“He’s trying to close it,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping. She stepped closer to Leo, looking over his shoulder. “Leo, stop tapping.”
“I’m securing the device,” Leo said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. His fingers were slick with sweat, slipping across the glass screen. “I have to delete the cache to stop the hacker. It’s security protocol.”
“Give the phone to Arthur,” Clara ordered. Her posture remained completely rigid, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. Her lips were pressed into a thin, colorless line.
Leo did not hand it over. Instead, he took a step back, his back hitting the metal fire door. On my tablet, the upload status reached one hundred percent. The screen flashed a final confirmation message: “Upload Complete: OakCreekCringe_Archive.” Simultaneously, Leo’s phone screen projected a pop-up confirmation menu, visible to everyone in the narrow hallway: “Are you sure you want to permanently delete ‘OakCreekCringe’?”
Leo tapped “Confirm.”
The screen immediately went black, then rebooted to a prompt: “A verification code has been sent to the primary administrative email: cvance@oakcreekheritage.org.”
A soft, digital chime echoed from the tablet Clara held in her left hand, signaling the arrival of the verification code.