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.