The safehouse smelled of wet paper and burnt coffee like someone had tried to write a novel and failed miserably. Neon leaked through a cracked window, slicing the room into sharp angles of shadow and light. I ducked under a low beam, boots clicking softly against the dusty floor, muttering, "Fantastic. Nothing says 'welcome back to chaos' like an abandoned office smelling like regret."
Click… scrape… drip…
The ledger sat on a metal table, wedged under a pile of newspapers. Its leather cover was scratched, worn, and smelled faintly of smoke and authority. I flipped it open. Pages filled with symbols, numbers, and letters arranged in patterns that screamed "someone enjoys puzzles while waiting for you to die."
I muttered under my breath, "Of course. A code. Because the Syndicate doesn't just hand out names like Halloween candy. They make you work for it."
Click… tap… hum…
I traced the lines, fingers hovering over faint ink marks, noting slight indentations where someone had pressed too hard, or erased too carefully. Patterns emerged a rhythm hidden in chaos. Coordinates, names, and dates. The city's skeleton revealed itself in paper form, fragile and yet lethal.
And then, like a knife through fog, a name jumped out. One I knew. One I hadn't seen in years.
I froze, the ledger trembling slightly in my hands. "Nope. Nope. Nope. Definitely nope," I muttered, voice low enough not to startle the room. "This is personal now. Great. Just what I needed: personal stakes and potential murderers all in one lovely package."
Scrape… drip… click…
I leaned closer, scanning every line for context. The name appeared alongside symbols marking influence, reach, and a mysterious emblem I recognized from the alley the same jagged orange and black. My pulse picked up. This wasn't just a ledger. This was a map… a hit list… a trap wrapped in paper.
"Perfect," I whispered, sarcasm thick as the dust coating the table. "I always wanted my past to crash into my present like a freight train. Bonus points if it's at full speed."
I flipped pages rapidly, each symbol teasing answers I didn't want, each pattern daring me to think I could control it. Every line was a thread pulling me closer to a revelation I wasn't ready for, a confrontation I could feel crouching in the shadows.
Click… tap… scrape…
A shadow moved near the window. I stiffened, ledger clutched, teeth grinding around words I didn't want to say out loud. "Of course, someone's watching. Because apparently, reading other people's business is a spectator sport tonight."
I ducked behind the table just as a figure stepped into the neon-sliced light too calm, deliberate, and impossibly precise. My mind raced. Was it Rook, darting ahead with nervous energy? Or the Detective, silent and calculating like a predator in a rain-soaked jungle?
I swallowed, muttering under my breath, "Either way, welcome to the chaos portion of your education, Dylan. Pop quiz included."
The ledger's pages trembled in my hands. That name… that symbol… my gut said one thing: this was bigger than luck. This was deliberate. Personal. Dangerous.
And as I straightened, eyes narrowing on the shadow by the window, I realized whatever game the Syndicate was playing, I was in the middle of it. With the past, the present, and someone else's design all stacked against me.
Click… drip… scrape…
I grinned. Bitter, sarcastic, human. "Alright. Let's dance. And maybe survive to tell a story that won't get me killed before the punchline."