Red's Digital Hood

Red tightened the hood of her cherry-red windbreaker as she stepped off the subway, her phone buzzing with a new text.

Mom: Grandma’s WiFi router crashed again. Can you swing by her apartment with the new one? Use the SafePath app! Love you.

Red smirked. At 19, she’d made this trip a dozen times. Grandma’s refusal to upgrade from her ancient laptop to a tablet was a family joke. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, tapping the SafePath icon. The app’s cheerful AI voice chirped, “Route secured! ETA 22 minutes.”

The downtown streets hummed with Friday night energy. Red weaved past food trucks and neon storefronts, her AirPods blasting lo-fi beats. Halfway there, her screen flickered.

“Rerouting… New shortcut detected. ETA 12 minutes.”

Red paused. The updated path veered into the Gridiron District—a maze of dim alleys the campus security app flagged as “high risk after dusk.” She hesitated, then shrugged. SafePath’s never steered me wrong before.

Unknown Number: Hey Red! It’s Jess from Bio 101. Lost my notes—can you forward yours? Link below!

Red frowned. Jess sat front row; she’d never ask for notes. She swiped delete, but her thumb slipped. The link opened.

A pixelated wolf emoji popped up. “Oops! You shouldn’t click strange links, Little Red.”

Her screen went black.

The Gridiron’s sodium lights cast long shadows. Red’s phone rebooted, SafePath now showing a pulsing wolf icon. “Turn left,” it growled, voice deeper.

“Glitch much?” Red muttered, but followed. The alley narrowed, graffiti tags glowing under her flashlight. A dumpster rattled. She jumped—just a rat.

Her phone buzzed again.

Grandma: Where are you, sweetie? My doorcam shows you’re nearby!

A map pin blinked on a crumbling apartment building. Red’s chest tightened. Grandma lived in a sleek high-rise, not this cracker-box tenement. She dialed her, but static hissed.

“Almost here, Red,” croaked the wolf-voice. “Grandma’s… waiting.”

“Hey! You look lost.”

Red whirled. A guy in a gray hoodie leaned against a bike rack, his laptop covered in hackathon stickers.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, clutching her backpack.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because your phone’s broadcasting a malware signal strong enough to fry a toaster.”

Red froze. “How’d you—?”

“Whitehat hacker.” He flashed a business card: CYBER WOODS SECURITY. “Call me Woodsman. Let me guess—phishing link?”

She nodded, cheeks burning.

“Classic social engineering.” He scanned her phone with his own. “They cloned SafePath, rerouted you. The ‘grandma’ texts? Deepfake AI.”

Red’s stomach dropped. “But why?”

“To empty your bank account… or worse.” He traced the signal to a server tagged BIGBADWARE. “We can trap them. You game?”

Back at Woodsman’s loft, Red watched him type furiously. Screens glowed with code, the wolf icon snarling in a digital cage.

“Almost got it,” he muttered. “When I say ‘now,’ reset your password. Two-factor authentication ready?”

Red nodded, fingers trembling.

The wolf’s IP address flared. “NOW!”

She smashed the reset button. The screen exploded into emoji confetti.

“Botnet disabled,” Woodsman grinned. “And… the creep’s real identity is uploading to the FBI.”

Red sagged in relief. “Who was it?”

“Some script-kiddie named Wolfgang. Got expelled for hacking the campus grid last year.”

Grandma’s actual apartment smelled of chamomile and fresh code.

“Took you long enough!” she teased, swapping her router. At 75, she ran a cybersecurity blog called Hoodwinked. “I told your mother that app was sketchy.”

Red groaned. “Not you too.”

Woodsman lingered at the door. “Stay off shady links, yeah?”

“Wait.” Red handed him a flash drive. “My notes on today. For your… whitehat thing.”

He smirked. “Partners?”

“Partners.”

As he left, Grandma winked. “Nice upgrade from delivery girl.”

Red rolled her eyes, but saved his number.

Epilogue:

Wolfgang’s mugshot trended on Reddit. SafePath issued a patch. And Red? She double-checked every link—and maybe texted Woodsman memes about firewalls.

Some paths, she learned, were better walked with vigilance… and a good VPN.