The stash house smelled of burnt coffee, old smoke, and wet cardboard like someone had tried to air-dry disaster. The door clicked shut behind me, the echo bouncing off the brick walls. I felt it in my gut before I saw it: wrong. Wrong angles, wrong shadows, wrong quiet.
Click… drip… scrape…
Crates stacked too neatly. Cigarette ash traced a deliberate line across the floor. Someone had rehearsed this scene. Someone who clearly hated subtlety.
"Lovely," I muttered, boots pausing on a puddle that hissed under my weight. "Welcome to the theatre of death, starring me. Bravo, everyone."
A shadow moved. Two shadows. No, three. Figures slipped from the corners like wet ghosts, their eyes faintly glinting under the flickering light. And then the trap sprung.
Metal bars clanged. A loose crate toppled. Water from a broken pipe sprayed cold across my face. My heart hit the ceiling. My coat flapped, wet and useless.
Click… tap… hum…
I ducked behind a stack of crates, tracing the angles of attack like I was reading a comic strip of danger. Each step, each shuffle, each misstep of the Syndicate pawns was logged in my brain.
"Really," I muttered, teeth clenched, "couldn't just send a polite invitation? You know… dinner, maybe a thank-you card?"
A floor panel shifted under my boot. Perfect. I nudged it with my heel. A burst of spray paint—orange marked a safe path, or maybe a warning. Subtle, if you like riddles with your near-death experience.
Scrape… drip… click…
I followed the narrow route, keeping low, counting heartbeats between the footsteps behind me. One miscalculation and it wasn't sarcasm that would sting it was something sharper, less forgiving.
From the corner of my eye, Rook appeared. Quick. Jittery. Hand raised, pointing. Not much help, just a hint that whispered: "Go left. Now." I didn't trust the gesture. I didn't have to. He wasn't saving me. Just nudging me along the chaos.
Tap… hum…
I slid between crates, ducked under a dangling wire, kicked a loose panel to create a diversion. The enforcers cursed behind me, their shoes slipping in puddles I barely noticed. Their planning had precision, but I had improvisation, sarcasm, and a memory that counted patterns like bullets.
I burst through the final door half sprint, half stumble into the rain-slick alley. Neon reflected off puddles, fragmented like my own adrenaline. I leaned against the wall, dripping, breathing, alive.
"Next time," I muttered under my breath, voice dry as dust, "just put up a sign: 'Congratulations, you're dead!' Saves everyone some theatrics."
Click… drip… hum…
Somewhere down the street, shadows shifted. I had survived, yes but the Syndicate's eyes had followed every move. And I knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.