The city breathed around me, wet and indifferent. Puddles reflected fractured neon like broken mirrors, and the wind whispered secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. That's when I noticed him or maybe it noticed me.
A shadow detached itself from the alley across the street. Not moving like a pedestrian. Not breathing like a human. Just… there. Watching. Waiting.
The Detective.
"Long time no see," I muttered, sarcasm coating my words like wet paint. "I was hoping the city had swallowed you for good."
He didn't answer. Didn't move closer. Just leaned against the wall, umbrella dripping, face obscured by shadow. The rain slicked streets made him almost unreal, like a memory stitched from smoke and wet concrete.
"You're walking into webs you don't even know exist," he said finally. Voice low, measured. Calm. Threatening in its stillness. "In the Syndicate, every man for himself. Help means debt. Debt means chains."
I crossed my arms, trying not to shiver. "So why warn me? If I'm about to drown in your charming chaos anyway?"
A flicker of a smile, gone as fast as it appeared. "Curiosity will keep you alive. Or kill you. Depends on how much you notice."
I chewed on that. Typical Detective. Cryptic. Pithy. And completely useless. But still… unsettling. He was proof the Syndicate had more eyes than the city had shadows.
Thrum… a distant metallic hum from the storm drains. My pulse synced with it, each beat a reminder: everything mattered. Every step, every glance, every wet footprint.
"Look," I said, rubbing my coat, sarcasm thinning. "If this is another test of my observation skills, congratulations. I noticed. Everyone else? Maybe not so much."
He tilted his head, as if weighing whether my words were arrogance or truth. Then he faded into the shadows, leaving only the smell of wet concrete and ozone behind. No goodbyes. No directions. Just gone.
I muttered under my breath, "Thanks for nothing, again."
The city seemed quieter after that, holding its breath. Every alley, every dripping gutter, every flickering sign felt like it could be a trap or worse, an invitation. My paranoia sharpened. Allies could be traps, enemies could be informants, and neutral ground was a myth.
And then, something small caught my eye. A scratch on a lamp post, barely noticeable, but deliberate. Sharp. Almost hurried. Like someone had left a mark for me to see or to wonder about. Elliot's style, maybe. Or the Detective's. Could be nothing. Could be everything.
I crouched, tracing the faint etchings with a finger. "Of course. Leave me breadcrumbs in a storm. That's safe, right?"
The rain started again, lightly this time, pattering on the street like a soft drumroll. The city was alive. Watching. Waiting. And so was I.
I slipped the black slip back into my pocket. The invitation hadn't gone anywhere. The Detective's warning had, in its cryptic way, confirmed what I already knew: survival here was about noticing, remembering, and never, ever trusting appearances.
I rose, shoulders stiff, eyes scanning the empty street. Every shadow could be a messenger, every sound a signal. The game was on. The web was tighter than ever. And somewhere deep in the storm, I felt it: the Syndicate was already waiting for my next move.