The stash house smelled like burnt coffee, damp cardboard, and someone's idea of a comfortable lie. Shadows stretched over crates, puddles of dim neon reflecting off metal edges, and every corner seemed rehearsed, as if the walls themselves were in on a joke.
Click… drip… shuffle…
Rook moved ahead, boots light, almost teasing, sliding between the stacks like he knew every secret the house had been forced to keep. "Watch your step," he said, voice smooth, practiced—but I was already noting the direction of each crate, the spacing, the faint chalk lines along the floor.
"Ah, yes," I muttered, voice low. "Nothing says 'trust me' like smoke-scented floors and artfully arranged chaos."
Click… scrape… hum…
He paused near a stack of boxes, leaning slightly, pretending to adjust something while I noted the ash pattern from a cigarette stub on the ground. Perfect semicircle. Someone had planned this, rehearsed it. I counted exits and calculated how long it would take to disappear if the air turned toxic.
"Ever think about subtlety?" I asked, more to the empty air than to him. "Or is that optional in your training manual?"
Rook didn't answer, just nodded toward a steel door, its surface scarred, emblem faintly etched into the plate. A hidden stash or a passage, it didn't matter yet my pulse ticked faster.
Click… drip… shuffle…
I followed, noting his deliberate movements. Every step he took was measured, almost playful, leaving subtle clues like breadcrumbs for someone paying attention. And I was. Every twitch of his hand, every tilt of his head—information. And yet, there was a nagging thought: usefulness often had a price.
"Bravo," I muttered, stepping over a puddle that reflected a shattered neon sign. "Next time, add a marching band and call it 'Welcome to Your Doom.'"
He glanced back, eyebrows raised, the faintest smirk appearing. The kind of smirk that said he knew exactly which traps I would spot and which I wouldn't. And probably had a favorite in mind for me.
Click… scrape… drip…
The steel door creaked open, revealing a narrow passage beyond. Smells of rust, oil, and something else bitter, industrial, almost like secrets burned into metal hit me. Rook paused, hand resting lightly on the edge of the doorframe, and I counted three beats before I followed.
"Somebody rehearsed this scene," I whispered, voice dry, muttering to the walls. "Standing ovation for subtlety. Hope they enjoy sarcasm as much as I do."
Shuffle… hum…
Inside, the shadows deepened, curling like smoke around the stacks. I didn't trust him fully. Maybe never would. But Rook had just ensured I noticed every detail, every mark, every hint. Useful, dangerous, and probably enjoying the game more than he should.
"And yet," I muttered, chin tilting slightly, "I can't decide if I should thank him or shoot him. Either way, curtain's up for Act Two."