It was half-past two in the morning in the glass Tribeca tower, New York City.

Senator Gerald Woods, a man whose words had dominated the news cycle for two decades, sat in his opulent office overlooking the cold city lights, nursing a glass of rare whiskey. He was reviewing the contact list for his upcoming presidential campaign, utterly secure in the belief that his digital and physical security walls were impenetrable.

Then, his private phone vibrated.

It wasn't a call or a text message, but an encrypted email that landed in the private account known only to three people in the world. The subject line held a single word: The Glitch.

Woods opened it slowly.

The message contained a short video clip: one minute of old security footage showing the Senator himself, five years ago, making a very small, very private mistake—a mistake capable of utterly destroying his political career and transforming him from a national hero into a disgraced liar and traitor overnight.

Woods froze, the chill sinking into the bones of the hand holding his glass.

The video wasn't the shock. The shock was in the final sentence of the email, written in a stark, cold font:

"We know everything. And now, we will share. The account details are below. You have 24 hours. Do not attempt to contact the police, and do not try to trace us. Because you will never find us. We are in a place you can never reach."

Woods watched the clip again. Then he looked up at the wall, where a framed photo of him with the former President hung. He felt despair constricting his throat. Who possessed this immense digital and logistical power?

He did not know that the source of the threat about to dismantle him completely was a group of women, sitting on battered wooden stools in a craft workshop inside a prison three thousand miles away, exchanging faint smiles as they sipped weak, lukewarm coffee.

The game of "The Blue Net" had just begun.