The tunnels felt narrower now, as if the city itself had recoiled from the sabotage. Sparks flickered faintly along the veins, casting long, jittery shadows on the damp walls. I crouched by a junction, tracing the pulse of the conduits, when a shuffle echoed through the corridor.
Clatter… scrape…
I froze. Whoever or whatever was coming moved like they were partly broken, dragging limbs, slipping on puddles. My first thought: rats. My second thought: much worse.
"Not rats," I muttered. "Definitely not rats. Rats don't whimper."
A figure emerged, hunched, battered, face partially hidden by shadow. Limping, bruised, and still remarkably alive. My gut hit a mix of irritation and curiosity.
"Dylan…" the voice rasped. Fear, desperation, and a touch of hope tangled in it.
I raised an eyebrow, leaning against the cold concrete. "Oh, look who crawled out of a dumpster of bad decisions. Did you bring a forwarding address for your excuses?"
The figure stumbled closer. I noticed the hands: scraped, shaking slightly. Not entirely fake. Not entirely trustworthy. Classic.
"I… I need please… forgive me," he croaked. "I can help. I can fix this. Just… just give me a chance."
I studied him. Sarcasm met calculation. "I'll only forgive you if you tell me your real name… because Rook is starting to sound like a board game villain."
He froze. A beat, then a bitter laugh escaped him. "Alright, alright… it's Elliot. Just… Elliot."
"Elliot," I repeated, letting the name roll off my tongue like sandpaper. "Simple. Unassuming. Not creepy at all. Perfect. Fits the 'dodges death and betrays people' vibe nicely."
Buzz… drip… thrum…
Elliot flinched, rubbing a cut across his temple. "I know I've messed up. But the Syndicate they're tightening… and if we don't act…"
I held up a hand. "Don't. Your sob story isn't an action plan. It's just noise. But fine… you lived to beg. Consider that merit… or dumb luck. The city will decide."
A faint spark leapt from the nearest conduit, sizzling across the floor. Elliot flinched, but I stepped over it like a professional ghost. "See? The city agrees with my assessment. It's already judging you."
Clatter… hum… tap…
He swallowed hard, leaning against the wall, sweat and grime streaking his face. Vulnerable, but still calculating. That was key. That was why I wasn't hitting him yet. Not that I was soft—I was just patient. Observation first, retribution later.
"Fine," I said finally, voice low, muttering more to the walls than him. "You're alive. You're Elliot. You may have a pulse, but your credibility? That's pending."
Click… drip… hum…
He nodded, too relieved to respond verbally. The corridors seemed to close in around us, veins pulsing with a warning I didn't need spelled out. The Syndicate wouldn't wait long.
I stepped back, glancing down the tunnel, already calculating my next move. "Alright, Elliot… congratulations. You lived to beg. Whether that counts as merit or just dumb luck, I'll let the city decide."
Thrum… hiss… drip…
And somewhere beneath the sarcasm, a thread of acknowledgment tangled with tension. He'd return, he'd matter, and the next time he appeared, it might not be as a beggar.