Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
The Onion Router (TOR) is free and open-source software for enabling anonymous communication...
...used by journalists, activists, and individuals seeking privacy...
...not inherently dangerous, though often associated with the dark web...
I skim faster, absorbing fragments. It's legitimate. It's actually a real thing. Not a virus. Not malware. Just a browser that lets you access parts of the internet that aren't indexed by Google.
The parts where illegal things happen.
The parts where people get trafficked.
My stomach twists.
But also... the parts where people maintain privacy. Where whistleblowers operate. Where, apparently, sex auctions that pay twenty thousand dollars for twenty-four hours exist.
The timer on the download page reads twelve seconds.
I click download.
The progress bar fills. Fast. Faster than it should for something that's supposedly complex and secure. Maybe that's how you know it's legitimate? Or maybe that's how you know you're being scammed?
I don't know.
I don't know anything except that I'm already in too deep to back out now.
The installation completes. A new icon appears on my desktop—an onion. Cute. Very on-the-nose for something called The Onion Router.
My laptop screen blinks again. Dings.
I actually whimper.
How many times can I be this stupid? How many red flags do I need before my brain engages and I do the smart thing and shut this entire operation down?
DarkDesires forum. Another message from AuctionAdmin_DarkDesires.
This one contains a link. Long. Incomprehensible. A string of random letters and numbers ending in .onion.
The next message appears before I can spiral further.
Double click the onion icon. Copy the link I sent you. Paste it into the address bar at the top. Press enter.
I stare at the instructions.
That's it.
That's the whole thing.
Double click. Copy. Paste. Enter.
Instructions written like I'm five years old. Like I've never used a computer before. Like I need someone to hold my hand through the most basic possible task that literally everyone on the internet knows how to—
Oh god.
I do need someone to hold my hand.
Because I'm sitting here staring at these four simple steps like they're written in a foreign language, my brain completely offline, panic making everything feel slow and thick and wrong.
It's just copy pasta. Everyone does this. You've done this a thousand times. Just... do the thing.
My hands are shaking.
I double click the onion icon.
The browser opens. It looks... normal. Weirdly normal. Just a plain window with an address bar and some basic navigation buttons. No scary warnings. No red flags. Nothing to indicate I've just opened a portal to the criminal underworld where my identity will be stolen, and my bank account drained, and my soul harvested for—
Stop. Breathe. Copy the link.
I switch back to DarkDesires. Highlight the incomprehensible string of letters and numbers ending in .onion. Right click. Copy.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This is fine. This is normal. You're just clicking things. Nothing bad has happened yet.
Yet.
I switch back to the TOR browser. Click in the address bar. Right click. Paste.
The link appears. Long and meaningless and definitely leading somewhere I shouldn't go.
My cursor hovers over the enter key.
Don't do this. You still have time. You can close the browser. Delete everything. Pretend this never happened. The thousand dollars is already in your account—they said you could keep it regardless. Just walk away.
But I won't walk away.
I know I won't.
Because I'm already calculating. One thousand dollars buys me... what? Two weeks? Maybe three if I eat nothing but ramen? It doesn't cover the eviction that's happening in three days. Doesn't stop the inevitable. Doesn't fix anything.
But twenty thousand dollars...
I press enter.
The screen goes white.
Then an image loads.
Mountains.
Snow-covered peaks against a pale winter sky. The photograph is beautiful in that crisp, almost painful way that makes you feel the cold just looking at it. Professional quality. The kind of landscape that belongs on a calendar or a screensaver.
There's nothing else.
Just mountains and snow and a single text box centered in the middle of the screen with a label above it that reads:
Access Code
I wait.
Nothing happens.
No pop-ups. No warnings. No instructions. Just mountains and an empty box and the sick feeling in my stomach that I've just done something monumentally stupid and there's no going back.
Ding.
The forum notification makes me jump.
Another message from AuctionAdmin_DarkDesires.
This one contains a single line of text: a string of twelve characters. Letters and numbers. No explanation.
The access code.
Obviously.
Because they're still holding my hand. Still walking me through this like I'm a child who can't figure anything out on her own.
You can't, whispers the part of my brain that sounds suspiciously like Derek. You're exactly as incompetent as you think you are.
I copy the access code.
Paste it into the text box.
My finger hovers over the enter key again.
Last chance. This is your last chance to stop being stupid.
I press enter.
The screen blinks.
For one horrible second I think it's going to go black again, that this whole thing is just an elaborate loop designed to fuck with me, to prove that I'm gullible, and desperate, and—