The laundromat reeked of rust and oil, a perfume that stuck to your clothes long after you left. Puddles of murky water reflected the flickering fluorescents above, making the floor look like a river full of secrets. I stepped carefully, boots whispering against wet concrete.
Click… drip… scrape…
A steel plate on the floor caught my eye. Not just any plate someone had carved an emblem into it, jagged lines running like veins across the metal. I crouched, tracing the pattern with my fingers. Familiar shapes. Deliberate. Calculated.
"Veins," I muttered under my breath. "Heartbeats of the city, or somebody's idea of a welcome mat."
A shadow shifted near the coin machines. I froze. No sudden movements, just observation. My brain ticked off exits, the spaces between them, and where Rook might dart from.
Click… tap… hum…
Nothing. Just the hum of machines and the drip of water from a leaking pipe. Still, I felt it the weight of eyes that had already studied the floor I was standing on.
I slid the plate aside and peered into the passage below. Sewage smell hit first, then oil, then that metallic tang that always screamed "someone's been here, and they know your name." I let a dry laugh escape. "Lovely. My fan club goes subterranean now. Fantastic."
I paused, fingers brushing over the emblem once more. Whoever left this wanted me to notice. They wanted me to follow. They wanted me to think I understood the path. They'd done it before. And they'd do it again.
Click… scrape… drip…
I slid down into the narrow corridor, keeping low, boots silent. Every shadow seemed alive, and every step felt like a negotiation between curiosity and self-preservation. I whispered to the darkness, half-mocking, half-real: "City veins, Syndicate breadcrumbs… pick your poison. I've got a taste for both."
The passage narrowed, oil-slick walls glistening under the faint light from above. The emblem seemed to pulse faintly in my mind, guiding me forward. Somewhere, I knew Rook was probably darting ahead, leaving subtle hints for me to catch tiny gestures, almost imperceptible signs. The Detective? He'd have warned me differently, calmly, measured, observing from a distance.
I smirked, muttering under my breath, voice bouncing off the walls: "Rook is a live wire. Detective's the plug. And me? I'm the electrician who never reads the manual."
The passage ended at a rusted ladder leading up into darkness. My fingers gripped the rungs, pulling myself toward whatever waited above.
Click… drip… scrape…
"Good thing I like bad ideas," I muttered, and climbed.