Rain had let up, but the city was still dripping, still watching. Puddles stretched like black mirrors, reflecting neon in jagged shards. My coat stuck to me, wet and miserable, and somewhere under the street's hum, I felt the Syndicate's pulse. Not far. Not close. Just… there. Waiting.
That's when I felt it: a slip of paper, black, cold, and impossibly thin, pressed into my pocket without my noticing. I froze, hand brushing against it. The paper didn't just sit there. It weighed heavier than its size, heavier than it had any right to be. Like the Syndicate itself had folded into the fibers.
I pulled it out and squinted. No words at first, just an emblem abstract, elegant, threatening. A snake swallowing its tail, or maybe a vein branching endlessly. I shivered. The city wasn't just alive. Someone or something was already inside it. Inside me.
A line at the bottom: Attend the gathering at the Veins.
I laughed. Wet, low, humorless. "A friendly neighborhood invite. Thanks for the RSVP, shadows."
The paper crinkled in my hand, mocking me. It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a suggestion. It was a summons.
I shoved it back into my pocket and glanced over my shoulder. Nothing. Just the usual blur of streetlights and the occasional pedestrian, their umbrellas like tiny shields against the storm's leftover wrath. And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling: eyes. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.
I muttered under my breath, sarcasm my only defense. "Sure. Why not? What's the worst that could happen oh right, death, betrayal, the city deciding I'm inconvenient. Nothing major."
The streets felt quieter, unnaturally quiet. The hum of distant traffic, the drip of rainwater from eaves, the occasional hiss of a sewer vent it all felt orchestrated, like the city itself was holding its breath. I could almost hear it: Follow the slip, Dylan. Move where we want.
My mind raced. The Veins. Underground tunnels, arteries of the city, full of shadows, secrets, and people who'd happily put a knife in your back for a nick of profit. Perfect place for an invitation that was really an instruction.
I paused at a flickering streetlight, hand on the paper. My fingers tightened. "Alright, city. Syndicate. Whoever else is listening. You want me to play your game. Fine. But I get to notice everything. Every shadow, every whisper, every wet footprint. And trust me I will."
Still, unease gnawed at me. I could feel it in the chill that ran up my spine, in the sticky weight of the black slip. Someone had already planned the steps I'd take. The streets, the rain, even my hesitation they were all part of the script. And me? I was just a character pretending to improvise.
I shoved the paper back into my pocket and started walking, each step echoing in puddles, echoing in my skull. Every street corner, every flickering sign, every whispered hiss of the wind seemed to confirm it: the web was tightening, and I was already caught.
A shadow flickered across an alley beside me. Too fast to be anyone ordinary. Too deliberate to be coincidence.
I muttered, half to the city, half to myself, "Well… Dylan, welcome to your second invitation. And you thought last night was fun."