The alley smelled of wet asphalt and burnt ozone, like the city had just exhaled sarcasm in my general direction. Rain hammered down, tapping on metal barrels, puddles splashing against my boots. I crouched low, watching the enforcer circle, calm, methodical, his shadow stretching long across slick brick walls.
Thud… scrape… drip…
I glanced at the scattered crates, the fire escape rungs glinting with neon reflections, my mind running algorithms faster than my legs ever could. "Fantastic," I muttered. "Tonight's syllabus: Dodge a man whose entire life is choreographed violence. Optional extras: survive, comment snarkily, and don't cry in puddles."
Click… hum… buzz…
And then like a caffeine-fueled specter Rook appeared. Not walking, not running. He glided, a blur of movement and leather jacket, boots landing with purpose. In one motion, he swung a chain across the enforcer's path, just enough to knock him off rhythm. The man stumbled. I blinked.
"Of course," I muttered, crouched behind a dumpster. "My personal unpaid life insurance policy shows up right on schedule. Charming."
Clatter… thud… splash…
Rook didn't wait for applause. He tossed me a hand, eyes gleaming, a smirk hidden in the shadows. "Up," he said, voice low, sharp, vaguely theatrical. "Move. Now."
I scrambled, sliding past crates, boots skidding in puddles, mind racing. Patterns emerged in my frantic thinking: broken streetlights, tilted trash cans, puddles reflecting neon like warning signs. Observation, improvisation, sarcasm still my survival kit.
Buzz… hum… drip…
"Rook, you always show up just in time, huh?" I hissed, leaping over a pipe. "Ever considered arriving after I survive, so I don't feel like a pet in a live-action chess game?"
He only smirked, silent, leading me down the alley. But something in his movements too smooth, too precise set my instincts on edge. He helped, yes. But who was he really helping? Me… or the Syndicate?
Click… scrape… thud…
We cleared the alley, and I took a breath that didn't quite reach my lungs. Neon reflected off wet walls, shadows shifting as if the city itself was taking notes. I muttered, "Observation, patience, and now: Rook's timing. Must be in the syllabus somewhere. Optional… probably lethal."
Rook paused at the corner, glance over his shoulder, eyes sharp. "Safe for now," he said. "Move fast, think faster. They'll be looking."
I nodded, sarcasm resurfacing like armor. "Right. Thanks, Rook. My life's now partially yours to choreograph. And here I thought I hated group projects."
Thud… tap… click…
As he melted back into the shadows Rook, my convenient, annoying, questionably trustworthy chess piece I realized a few things:
He helped, but help has a price.Trust is a temporary, dangerous luxury.The Syndicate is watching, waiting, mapping every step.
And me? Still alive. Sarcastic, paranoid, and uncomfortably aware that the city's veins ran deeper than puddles, neon, and my own brittle sense of humor.
Click… drip… hum…
I muttered under my breath, boots dripping in water and adrenaline, "Lesson learned. Rescue or rehearsal either way, I'm performing, the audience is lethal, and the critics never blink."