Evan Holt hated storms. Not the rain itself—he could handle a steady drizzle tapping against his flat's window while he nursed a cup of tea and picked apart code late into the night. That was almost soothing, a soft rhythm to keep him company. But storms? Storms were a different beast. They roared in like they owned the place, wind screaming through the streets, thunder shaking the walls, lights flickering like they were auditioning for a horror flick. They messed with everything—his Wi-Fi, his focus, the fragile peace he'd carved out in a life spent wrangling systems into submission. At thirty-two, Evan had made order his religion: networks that ran like clockwork, servers that purred under his touch, code that bent to his will. Storms didn't give a damn about any of that, and this one, tearing through London on a Tuesday night in March, was out for blood.
He was half-dozing on his couch when the call came, sprawled out with one leg hooked over the armrest, a warm can of Red Bull sweating rings onto the coffee table. The TV blared some reality show he wasn't watching—just noise to fill the flat while the wind clawed at the windows, rattling the panes like it wanted in. His phone buzzed against the cushion, jolting him awake, and he groaned, already knowing who it was before he squinted at the screen. *NexTech - Raj*. Perfect. His boss had a sixth sense for picking the shittiest moments to ruin his night.
"Evan, mate, we're screwed," Raj's voice burst through, loud and frayed over the storm's growl. "Main server's down, network's toast. Power surge, I reckon—can you get down here? Like, right now?"
Evan rubbed his eyes, shoving his glasses up his nose. "It's past eleven, Raj. You sure this can't wait 'til I've had a coffee and, I dunno, a shred of sanity?"
"Not unless you want the CEO chewing us out when the morning reports don't run. Come on, you're the magic man. I'll owe you big."
"You owe me a bloody vacation by now," Evan grumbled, but he was already hauling himself upright, joints popping like he was twice his age. "Fine. Gimme twenty. If I die out there, tell my mum it was your fault."
Raj laughed, a short, jagged sound. "Deal. Bring an umbrella, yeah?"
Evan didn't bother with an umbrella. They were useless in wind like this—always flipping inside out, leaving him soaked and wrestling with a mangled mess. He'd rather take the hit. He yanked on his jacket—a ratty black thing with frayed cuffs—laced up his boots, and grabbed his toolkit, stuffing it into a backpack that'd seen better days. The flat was a wreck as he left: dishes piled in the sink, a snarl of cables on the desk from a half-finished Raspberry Pi project, a pizza box teetering on the counter. He didn't care. Cleaning was for mornings he wasn't dragged out into a tempest. He locked the door, the wind snatching at it as he stepped into the hall, and braced himself for the slog ahead.
The drive to NexTech was hell on wheels. His Fiat Punto sputtered through flooded streets, wipers thrashing against the rain like they were fighting a losing battle. The city blurred past—red brake lights bleeding into yellow streetlamps, the occasional blue flash of an ambulance cutting through the dark. Thunder growled low, shaking the car's frame, and lightning cracked the sky open every few minutes, turning the night into a strobe show. Evan white-knuckled the steering wheel, muttering a steady stream of curses—at the weather, at Raj, at the Fiat's dodgy heater that refused to kick in. He'd been at NexTech six years, the guy they called when the digital world went tits-up, and he was good—damn good—but nights like this made him wonder why he hadn't gone for something cushy. Tech support for a florist, maybe. Did florists even need servers?
He skidded into the data center's lot just past midnight, tires slipping on the slick asphalt. The building squatted ahead, a concrete slab in a dreary industrial estate, its windows dark except for the faint red pulse of emergency lights. Rain slammed the car's roof like a jackhammer, and the wind ripped the door from his grip as he climbed out, nearly toppling him into a puddle. He swore, loud and creative, and bolted for the entrance, backpack slung over one shoulder, boots splashing through water that soaked his jeans to the knees. By the time he swiped his keycard and stumbled inside, he was a dripping mess—hair plastered to his forehead, glasses fogged, jacket shedding rivulets onto the tile.
"Bloody brilliant," he muttered, shaking off like a wet dog. The lobby was dead quiet, save for the distant hum of generators fighting to stay alive. Raj wasn't there—probably camped out upstairs, sipping coffee while Evan played hero. Typical. He slogged down the hall, boots squeaking, and took the stairs to the basement, the server room's steel door looming like a vault. This was his turf—a concrete bunker of racks and cables he knew better than his own flat. He'd lost count of the nights he'd spent here, coaxing systems back from the brink, and tonight was just another round in the ring.
The air hit him as he shoved the door open—hot and sharp, thick with the tang of ozone and something faintly charred. Emergency lights bathed the room in a dim orange glow, casting long shadows over the rows of server racks, their fans stuttering like they were on life support. He dropped his backpack by the door, toolkit clattering, and dragged a stool over to the main console. The monitor flickered, spitting out error logs faster than he could blink, a chaotic mess of green and white text. He cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet, and muttered, "Alright, let's see what you've gone and done now."
He dove in, hands moving on autopilot—checking power lines, tracing cables, hunting for the scars of a surge. His toolkit spilled across the floor: pliers, a screwdriver, a tangle of spare wires he'd scavenged over the years. His fingers, rough from years of tinkering, danced over the hardware with a rhythm he'd honed since he was a kid pulling apart his dad's old PC. He'd dropped out of uni at twenty, chasing this instead—code was his poetry, hardware his sculpture, networks his symphony. The hours were brutal, the pay middling, but there was a thrill in it, piecing a puzzle back together, making the chaos bend. Tonight, though, the chaos was winning.
The storm wasn't helping. Thunder rolled again, a deep, pissed-off growl that rattled the walls, and the lights flickered—once, twice—threatening to bail on him. "Oh, come on," he groaned, fishing a flashlight from his kit and clamping it between his teeth. The beam wobbled as he yanked a panel open, revealing a snarl of wires and a power supply that looked like it'd been torched. "There you are, you sod," he mumbled around the flashlight, voice garbled. He tugged the burned-out unit free, chucking it aside with a clang, and reached for a spare from the shelf. His fingers grazed a live wire in the dark—a dumb slip—and a jolt snapped up his arm, sharp enough to make him yelp. The flashlight hit the floor, rolling under the rack, and he shook his hand out, swearing a blue streak. "Get it together, Holt," he growled, snatching the light back and diving in again.
Time blurred after that, hours slipping away in a haze of cables and code. The storm raged on, rain hammering the roof, wind rattling the tiny window high on the wall—a slit barely worth calling it, but enough to let the noise seep in. He replaced the power supply, rerouted the load through a backup line, and booted the system, leaning back as the monitor flickered to life. Error logs gave way to diagnostics, then the faint hum of a network stirring awake. He grabbed the Red Bull he'd hauled down from the car, popped it open, and took a swig—warm, flat, but it hit like a lifeline. "Almost there," he muttered, typing commands to lock it down. If he could stabilize it, he'd be out by three, maybe crash on the couch before Raj's inevitable follow-up call.
Then he saw the water.
It was a glint at first, a shimmer on the concrete near the door, catching his flashlight as he swept it around. He frowned, standing, and stepped closer, boots squelching on the damp floor. A thin stream trickled from the wall, seeping through the window's cracked seal, snaking toward a power strip plugged into the rack. "Oh, you've got to be shitting me," he said, voice tight with disbelief. He lunged, yanking the cord free just as a spark flared, hissing against the wet floor. His pulse spiked, breath catching. That was too close—way too close.
He straightened, chest heaving, and aimed the flashlight up. The window's glass was webbed with cracks, water pushing through, dripping steadily now. "Perfect. Just perfect." He grabbed a rag from his kit, jamming it against the leak, but it soaked through in seconds, water spilling over his hands. He needed to shut down the rack, move the gear—but the system was still fragile, mid-boot, and killing it now would undo everything. "Hold on, just hold on," he muttered, darting back to the console, fingers flying over the keys.
Thunder hit then, a crack so loud it shook the room, rattling the racks. The lights died completely, plunging him into black except for the monitor's glow and his flashlight's wobbling beam. "No, no, no—" he hissed, typing faster, rerouting power to the generators. The screen flickered, code streaming—green on black, a lifeline he clung to. He was so close, seconds from locking it down, when the storm struck its final blow.
Lightning ripped through the sky outside, a jagged slash he glimpsed through the shattered window. It wasn't just light—it was raw, crackling fury, and it found a path. The glass exploded inward, a deafening pop, shards raining down as electricity surged into the room. Evan didn't have time to shout. The current slammed into him, a white-hot fist through his chest, his hands still on the keyboard. His body locked, muscles seizing, vision flaring—white, then red, then a buzzing haze. The flashlight clattered away, spinning wild shadows across the racks.
His mind scrambled, clutching at fragments—code, streaming past like a flood, green digits on black, sharp and clean. His fingers twitched, reaching for keys that weren't there, a word looping in his fading thoughts: *Reboot*. Then the storm took him, and Evan Holt was gone—burned out in a basement of sparking wires and flickering lights, the rain pounding a relentless dirge overhead.