From his inconspicuous parking spot, Alban watched a smoker by the employee entrance into the studio lot. A lanyard around her neck swayed gently with each puff of smoke, its plastic ID card glinting in the bright sunlight.
He plugged a sleek device, no longer than a portable charger, into his phone before extending its thin antenna. Then he directed the antenna at the smoker and tapped on his phone. The RFID reader hummed to life, scanning the tag, adjusting frequencies, and cloning the information. After a couple of seconds, success chimed from the tablet in his lap.
With the expression of a man watching paint dry, Alban’s half-lidded eyes acknowledged the tablet’s ping. It was like brushing his teeth: necessary but dull.
Next, Alban selected a small, pen-shaped RFID emulator from his toolkit. The data transfer from his phone was almost instant. A subtle green light blinked twice, signifying success.
The minutes ticked by until the smoker flicked the ash and discarded it on the ground. She crushed the butt under her heel, turned, and with squared shoulders, entered the building.
After waiting one more minute, Alban activated the tablet’s mirror app and studied his appearance. A matted wig camouflaged his actual short haircut well while his beard, thick and carefully shaped, did well to shroud his face. The odds of him getting found out were pretty slim. Though, once things were over, he’d have to part ways with the beard for a while.
He stepped out of his car, clad in a black crew shirt tucked into dark jeans. Much like those he had scouted the day prior, a fake lanyard swung around his neck as he strolled to the door. He casually waved the RFID emulator like a wand over the door’s access panel, and the lock disengaged with a soft click.
The hallway enveloped Alban in the deep, invigorating whiff of freshly brewed coffee and fresh pizza crust from the nearby cafeteria. He paused once he entered and peeked in.
The cafeteria was alive with activity, its occupants a mix of crew members, production assistants, and talent all mingling. Chefs and servers bustled along the service counter, dishing out gooey pizza slices. Nearby, a salad bar offered a colorful array of fresh options.
Might as well make a pit stop here on the way back, he thought. Pizza wasn’t something you skipped. Or at least it wasn’t when you didn’t have a job to do.
He shifted his attention to his left, where a sizeable wall-mounted map detailed the layout of the sprawling facility. It marked studios, offices, and amenities, including the control room. He noted it before he became part of the studio's machinery.
The studio was a hive of activity, every corridor and room humming with the frantic energy of creation. In the walkway, crew members pushed carts laden with equipment while quickly navigating through the narrow spaces. Camera operators adjusted their lenses, makeup artists fluttered around hosts – dabbing and powdering – and sound engineers monitored levels. PAs offered guests reassuring smiles and guidance toward their places.
As they went about their business, Alban went about his, his face one of many in the crowd. He was just part of the machinery until he came past a dressing room.
“We’re not here to baby them or make excuses for their behavior,” an assertive voice said from the other side. “We’re here to hold them accountable and help them see the reality of their situation.”
Alban paused. The mark, Landon, was the one yakking. He pressed his ear closer to the door.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said a fragile female voice, “but I’m having a hard time understanding how leaving alcohol in his dressing room helps him overcome his addiction.”
“Rock bottom is a harsh reality that forces people to confront their issues. He won’t see it now, but he’ll thank us later.”
“But what if it backfire—”
“I’m a professional, and I know what I’m doing. Your doubts aren’t helping anyone.”
The silence that followed was almost tangible. It was as if the air itself held its breath.
“If you aren’t willing to make the tough decisions,” Landon said, “maybe this isn’t the right fit for you.”
A sharp series of stomping footsteps prickled Alban’s ear, each louder and more pronounced than the last. He backed away from the door and hustled forward.
The door squealed as it opened, announcing Landon. Alban kept walking forward but twisted his head and glanced back.
Landon, dressed in a gray suit, strode into the hallway, his bald head reflecting the light while his thick brown goatee framed his serious expression. His rounded glasses caught a glint as he turned sharply to Alban.
Scowling, Alban broke away from Landon and continued forward.
Might be worth staying to catch the show, he mused. If there was any one type that he’d have a blast messing with, it was guys like him. Self-important, do-gooder twats were the worst. Their cruelty, greed, and other crap weren’t any less than those they cast judgment on. They wouldn’t jump on every excuse they could come across if they were good. No, they were just better at putting on a front.
An honest bastard beat a smug, righteous pain in the ass any day. An honest bastard was definitely going to beat a smug, righteous pain in the ass that day.
Alban picked up the pace as he went to the control room.
As he neared the open door, the faint chatter of technical jargon and rapid clicking of keys caught his ears.
Alban crept closer and peeked around the corner.
Inside, many screens bathed the room in a soft, electric glow, each displaying different angles of the studio. Technicians, their faces illuminated by the blue hue of the monitors, darted back and forth. The director meanwhile communicated with the floor, guiding camera operators and floor managers.
Guess I won’t be able to fly under the radar with this one, he thought as he scanned. Then he narrowed his eyes as his gaze landed on the central computer system.
Nestled among the maze of monitors and consoles, the unassuming machine was the nerve center of the entire operation. Everything flowed through it: camera feeds, graphics, sound, pre-recorded segments, live broadcasts.
There was no mistaking it: that was the target. He just needed to get the USB in, and they’d be golden. Should be a cakewalk, he thought as he stepped away from the door. He just needed to empty the room.
Alban backtracked down the hallway while retrieving a silk cloth from his pocket. He stopped when he found his key: the fire alarm. With cloth in hand, Alban gripped the handle and yanked.
A shrill wail erupted to life, pierced through the walls, and shook his soul.
A figure in a dark suit with a headset looped around his neck rushed out of the control room first. Then, a tall individual stumbled out with an armful of paper. A third with a bright scarf flowed out next, then a harried figure, then a stock one who moved purposefully, and more. By the end, someone with a jacket slung over an arm strolled out and glanced at his watch, seemingly unfazed by the alarm.
Alban sauntered up to the room and peeked in to find the room, which moments ago hummed with life, empty.
Amateurs, he thought. It was like they wanted him to win.
He continued towards the central computer while reaching into his pocket for the USB he brought. It slid effortlessly into the computer’s port.
The small LED on the side of the USB blinked erratically for seconds before stabilizing into a smooth green hue.
“Team B,” an authoritative voice said, “what’s your status? We’re approaching the control room now.”
A subtle shiver rolled down his shoulders, and a tiny smile touched his lips. Things had finally got a little more interesting.
Alban skimmed the room, which was primarily made up of desks. Hiding under those would’ve been a rookie mistake. The rent-a-cops were probably dumb but not blind. And he couldn’t stay out there and try to play the panicked employee card. Way too theatrical. He never was one for theatre. Where’s a spot they’d never think to peek…?
He jerked his neck up as the answer clicked. Speckled tiles with an occasional gray and brown dot stretched above his head.
Alban snatched a nearby swivel chair and clambered atop it. The chair wobbled, but he maintained his balance as he stood straight up. Then, with one foot on the chair’s armrest for extra height, he dislodged the tile and revealed the dark void above. With a slight grunt, he hoisted himself up, elbows first, into the ceiling. His muscles strained only briefly before he was hidden away.
The tile clicked back into place seamlessly.
Mustiness surrounded him, a blend of aged insulation, mildew, and a subtle undertone of metallic dust. It was as if the ceiling’s air had been untouched by human presence for years. A heaviness settled in Alban’s lungs and weighed down each inhalation. It was like breathing through layers of old fabric.
Nevertheless, he shifted into a plank position – his palms and forearms braced against the rough surface of the tiles. The texture bit into his skin, and his muscles quivered, but he remained still.
The thud of boots on the floor below sounded like thunder, each step an echo in the black void he occupied.
“Nothing unusual,” the previous voice said. “This room is clear.”
“Alright,” said another voice, “let’s move to the next room.”
The room below filled with a crisp snap of a walkie-talkie confirming an “all clear” before the click-clack of their shoes on the floor tapered off like a departing train.
Alban cracked a tiny smirk. If Cassidy was “The Grandmaster,” he was the deity of theft. He had more tricks than she had years of experience in the game.
Careful not to make a sound, he used his fingertips to lift and nudge the tile aside, clearing the path to his return to solid ground. He lowered himself through the gap, gripping the edges of the ceiling to control his fall, and landed with the grace of a cat. The opening was sealed once more within seconds.
I should send them a thank-you card for being so wonderfully oblivious, he thought as he unplugged the USB.
With it secured and the hacking complete, he made his way out of the building while checking the remote server he connected the computer to. Each icon on his phone expanded into a streamlined menu with unadorned, clean text fonts. To the uninitiated, the layout would’ve appeared stark. For Alban, every pixel had a purpose; every menu a calculated decision. It was the epitome of form following function.
He scrunched his face as he studied the screen. He had more permissions than anticipated. He clicked a button, and an array of camera options appeared.
Well, this is a pleasant surprise, he thought as the reality he stumbled into clicked. Their system was interconnected. The control room had access to the security cameras – meaning he had access to the security cameras.
Alban’s eyes squinted against the almost physical force of the grin that surged across his features. They had all but given him the keys to the kingdom… It was time to wear the crown.
