His heart hammered. He mashed the keys. Nothing.
Root’s final message appeared, typed in the bright yellow of a scrambled egg: proxy domains shell shockers
"Look at you, Sgt. Scramble. You're not a soldier. You're an egg. Unprotected. Unencrypted. All I needed was one of you to click the link." His heart hammered
Leo never played on a proxy domain again. But sometimes, late at night, he’d hear the faint pop of a grenade from his muted speakers. And he knew—Root was still inside, watching the chickens come home to roost. late at night
Leo typed: "u new?"
"You're using a proxy," Root typed. "A little tin can and a piece of string. I own the telephone exchange."
It was labelled: