Phishing, like actual fishing, takes time and patience. That’s what I kept telling myself as I watched Mischa Bartlett through the security camera feed on my laptop. I sat in the coffee shop in front of her investment building, watching her rush in on a Saturday. Finding the number to her work cell wasn’t hard, it was listed on her work website. You know, she cares that much about her clients. A nice, personal touch.

She came in on a day off because she received a message that a client was getting cold feet on a large investment account she managed and wanted to set up an emergency meeting. I made the email look as legit as possible, the signature, subject, sender email...it all looked good enough.

I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not hurting anyone. I might ruin their lives, but I’m not killing them.

The email sent between the time she unlocked the front door and sat down at her desk to log in on her desktop. All she had to do was click the link in the body and my malware would do the rest. That’s what I was waiting for. Any moment now.

[email protected]: -ip 222.35.457.125

[email protected]: List Count: 45785 Type: alphanum

[email protected]: Scanning Complete

[email protected]: Time elapsed: 6.89654

[email protected]: Password: Inve$ter

And just like that, I’m in. It won’t take long to grab what I’m after. Sure, Mischa is a means to an end but maybe she shouldn’t work for people who traffic in under age girls. Depending on how much she knows, she might not even do jail time.

[email protected]: Authentication

[email protected]: Scan Complete

[email protected]: Accounts Located

[email protected]: Initiating File Transfer

Mischa’s stopped moving. Through the feed, I can tell her hands are shaking. At first, she probably had nerves from the important meeting but now...now she knows something’s wrong. If she knows I’m in her system and commences a hard shutdown, the transfer might not go through. I need to do something. I can’t risk losing my last point of access at this firm.

Grabbing my burner phone from my backpack next to me, I dial the pre-programmed number. The cell phone on Mischa’s desk rings. Pick up. Pick it up. Cautiously, she lifts the phone to her cheek. “Hello?” Her voice is shaky. “Hello?”

Think of something. Anything that’ll keep her busy. “This is I.T.” I lied. “It looks like someone is trying to remote access your system. Have you received any strange looking emails today?” I don’t even register what she says. My eyes are glued to the black dialogue window on my laptop.

“I need you to check your USB ports for anything that shouldn’t be there,” I said, stalling for more time. The files are taking longer to transfer than I anticipated.

“Nope, nothing...aside from the receivers for my mouse and keyboard,” she replied.

I needed to keep her talking, to keep her focused on something inconsequential so the transfer could complete. “When, uh, when was the last time your RAM automatically updated?” That was a stupid thing to say. It’s what I get for improvising.

“RAM? Isn’t that hardware? I thought I.T. would...wait. Who is this?”

I hung up. No point in dragging that out. Through the camera, I could see her dialing another number, probably her real I.T. department. Now my hands were beginning to shake. It almost was like-

[email protected]: Time Elapsed 12.25.23105

[email protected]: Transfer Complete

I let out an audible sigh. The hard part was over. A few anonymous tips later, and I’d be able to sit back and watch the news in a few hours, seeing the fallout of my hack unfold in real time. Through my feed, I saw Mischa stand up and throw her phone down. She pressed her fingers on the sides of her head and paced frantically behind her desk, likely knowing the implication of what just happened.

Grabbing a knife-like letter opener from a cup on her desk, I saw her take a deep breath. Before I could even stand, the office supply sliced down one forearm and then the other. Mischa collapsed back into her chair, her arms hanging over the sides, bleeding onto the carpet.

I powered down my laptop, packed up my things, and rushed out of the coffee shop. My fingers felt cold, despite the warm day. The tunnel of my vision focused on the nearest subway terminal entrance. I had to get home, as quickly as possible.

It’s not like I was trying to kill anyone. You believe me, right?