Marcus always closed the laptop when I walked into the room.

For two years I told myself it was a habit, the way some people lock their phones face-down out of reflex. He gamed three nights a week with a group he called the boys, voices crackling through his headset until two in the morning. I'd hear him laugh at things I couldn't follow and feel a small, harmless envy that he still had that — friends, a world of his own, a place to disappear.

The night it cracked open was almost boring. My own laptop had died, a deadline glowing red in my inbox, and Marcus was in the shower. His machine sat humming on the desk, the screen still awake. I only meant to borrow a browser tab.

But the chat app was open, and there was a server pinned to the top of his list, a little fortress icon with a private padlock beside the name. The Boys. I clicked it the way you press a bruise, half hoping it would just be patch notes and screenshots of high scores.

It wasn't.

There were channels. Actual organized channels, the way you'd build a workspace. One was for general talk. One was for game nights. And one, tucked at the bottom with a name I won't repeat, was something else entirely. I opened it and the messages scrolled up and up, months of them, years.

They were trading instructions. That's the only way I can describe it. Which apps left no trace. How to mirror a second number through a tablet. What to say when she checks the credit card, which hotels didn't email receipts, how to seed a fake work trip weeks in advance so nobody asked questions. Photos I made myself stop looking at. And underneath each confession, the others cheering, advising, covering — a locker room with the door bolted shut.

Marcus had posted in it that afternoon. He'd asked the group to back up a story about a conference in another city next month. Two of them had already agreed to be his alibi.

I heard the shower stop. The pipes knocked in the wall the way they always did, and I remember thinking how strange it was that the house sounded exactly the same.

I didn't scream. I took photographs of the screen with my phone, channel by channel, my hands steadier than I expected, because some cold practical part of me knew that screenshots vanish and I was not going to be the woman who couldn't prove it. Then I closed the laptop the way he always did, gently, and went to make tea.

He came down with wet hair and kissed the top of my head and asked what I wanted to watch. I said I didn't mind. We watched something. He laughed at the boys in his head and I laughed at the right moments, and the whole time I was thinking about the conference that didn't exist and the two friends already lying for him.

He thought the server was the safest place in his life. He never imagined it would be the thing that handed him to me, sorted into neat little channels, time-stamped, signed in his own name.