The tunnels curved like arteries, narrowing then widening without warning. I kept my boots light on the wet concrete, every step a soft splash, every breath a measured intake. The Veins hummed around me, alive, judging, impatient. And somewhere in that oppressive quiet, someone was waiting.
He appeared as if conjured by the shadows themselves Jonas. Smooth, precise, polished. A grin too bright for these alleys, clothes too clean, eyes too calculating. He stepped toward me with the kind of ease that made me itch. Not physically. My instincts. The kind that screamed: People this nice in this city are either dead or killers.
"Dylan," he said, voice soft but sure, like he'd been expecting me. "You're deeper in the Veins than most first timers. Let me guide you."
I raised an eyebrow, sarcasm ready. "Oh, a guide. Perfect. Because nothing screams safety like a stranger in designer sneakers offering to babysit me through Syndicate hell."
He chuckled, a smooth sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Call it courtesy. Call it… survival."
Survival. Right. My mental alarm bells clicked into overdrive. Every friendly word, every casual gesture, every easy step was catalogued. He was too prepared, too knowledgeable, too… convenient.
Thrum… drip… echo…
As we moved, I noticed details others might miss. The way he scanned the walls while talking, fingers brushing over scratches in the concrete like reading Braille. How his gaze lingered slightly too long on exits. How his hands were never idle, adjusting straps, checking pockets, fidgeting just enough to suggest awareness, never anxiety. Everything measured, deliberate.
Jonas talked freely about the Syndicate: Lieutenants, rival cells, the politics of chaos. He had answers to questions I hadn't even asked. Too many answers. My suspicion sharpened. He was either brilliant or dangerous. Probably both.
"And here," Jonas said, pointing down a narrow corridor, "is where the Veins split. Keep your eyes open. Not everyone makes it past the first bend."
I nodded, pretending to take advice. Inside, I was noting every possibility: which shadows could conceal a weapon, which corridor could be a trap, which words were bait. Every movement, every smile, every syllable catalogued.
I offered a dry smile, keeping it casual. "Noted. Thanks for the friendly heads up. Really comforting."
He grinned, oblivious or pretending to be. Either way, I filed that away too.
By the time we reached a junction, I had a mental ledger: Jonas was helpful, too knowledgeable, suspiciously prepared. Status: watch, wait, use.
I murmured under my breath, low enough for the Veins to swallow the words: "Play along. Learn. Survive. And maybe, just maybe, figure out what game you're really playing."
The tunnels pulsed around me, alive, judgmental, indifferent. Jonas walked beside me, unaware that his every move, every word, was already being scored. This city, this Syndicate, wasn't about trust. It was about observation. And for the first time, I felt like I was beginning to keep score.