The package was small. Ridiculously small. Not that it mattered. In the Syndicate's world, size never determined importance; repercussions did. I stared at it, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, like some sad gift from a distant, malevolent aunt.
"Deliver this," the shadowed messenger had whispered, vanishing into the tunnels before I could ask a single question. No instructions. No route. Just… deliver.
I exhaled, muttering under my breath: "Fantastic. Blind delivery in the veins of hell. What could go wrong?"
Thrum… drip… echo…
The Veins responded. Pipes rattled somewhere above, water dripped from jagged concrete, and every step I took echoed like I was announcing my existence to the whole city. Perfect cover. Perfect setup for disaster.
I moved cautiously, boots splashing shallow puddles, eyes darting over every corner, every shadow. Footsteps followed, subtle at first, then fading into the hum of machinery. Someone was watching. Someone else. Maybe several people. The Syndicate didn't leave anything to chance, and neither did the city.
At a junction, I paused. Two corridors stretched ahead. Both looked identical, both smelled of damp concrete and rust, both hummed with quiet menace. I considered my options, weighing which path seemed… slightly less likely to end with a sharpened blade or a trapdoor. Slightly less likely. That was all I had.
Halfway through the delivery, I noticed a flicker a figure mirrored my steps across a shadowed passage. Boots hitting puddles, timing exactly right. Not a coincidence. Not a chance. A test. My pulse ticked faster. I cataloged everything: pace, direction, echo, breath. Everything mattered. Everything was noted.
By the time I reached the handoff point, it became clear: the package wasn't important. Nothing here was. My every movement had been observed, judged, and recorded. The Syndicate didn't trust anyone, and by extension, they didn't trust me.
I handed off the package to a hooded figure who barely glanced at it. A nod. That was it. No thanks. No acknowledgment. Just… received. I left as quietly as I could, retracing my steps, watching for signs of anyone tracking me.
A scratch on the wall caught my eye barely noticeable, a hurried mark. Someone had been here, someone had left a trace, then vanished. Elliot's style? Maybe. Or a warning. Or bait. Paranoia tasted like iron in my mouth, sharp and necessary.
Thrum… drip… echo…
By the time I returned to the entrance of the Veins, I was shaking not from exertion, but from awareness. Observation had kept me alive. Detail had saved me. And still, the city pulsed around me, humming with secrets I hadn't yet uncovered.
I muttered, voice low: "Deliver packages, avoid death, notice everything. Check. Easy peasy. Syndicate 1, Dylan 0… for now."
But I knew better. Every small test was a trap. Every shadow is a potential threat. Every corridor is a lesson in survival. And somewhere in the depths, the Syndicate was watching me. Counting me. Testing me. Already planning the next move, I didn't even know I'd make.
I tucked the black slip back into my pocket. Invitations, packages, and warnings were all part of the same game. And I was learning the rules, one cautious, sarcastic step at a time.