The corridor was quiet. Dust on the floor. A few terminals along the walls, dormant — except one, which had a small amber light still blinking at its base. Not running. Just... waiting.
Fluffy stopped.
Someone had been here. Not recently — but the terminal had kept its logs, the way abandoned machines sometimes do when no one thinks to tell them not to. In a folder near the root: a packet capture. Keyboard traffic. Someone typing.
He pulled it up.
The typing was clumsy — lots of it was undone, redone, and corrected mid-word. Whoever had been at this terminal wasn’t careful. Or was in a hurry. Either way, every keystroke had been caught. Every correction, too.
“The wire doesn’t know what you meant to type, “ Fluffy murmured. “Only what you did.”
He settled in to read what had actually been pressed.