The tunnels twisted like veins through the city's underside, each corridor a pulse, each junction a decision. Jonas led the way, moving like he owned every shadow, every echo. I followed, boots silent, eyes sharper than a blade, cataloguing everything he didn't know I was noticing.
"See this?"Jonas said, pointing to a scratched symbol on the wall. "Every man for himself. Except me'."
I squinted, sarcastic under my breath. "Ah, yes. Nothing says 'organized crime' like graffiti that's somehow more exclusive than a nightclub list."
He didn't laugh. Too used to it, maybe. Or too aware that humor in these tunnels was a liability. "Carrow runs charm. His people believe in him, trust him. Others… well, they fear Lieutenant Krain. Brutality, efficiency, zero remorse. And then there's Lyric. Philosophy. Twists minds before twisting necks."
I nodded slowly, pretending to absorb wisdom while noting cracks, slips, and the things left unsaid. Charming or cruel, philosophical or practical, every tactic left weaknesses. Every faction had a skeleton. I filed it under: Potential leverage.
Drip… thrum… metallic hum…
I followed Jonas through a narrow bend. The faint echo of distant boots bounced off the walls. Somewhere, water fell into metal, sounding like slow, deliberate taps. The Veins weren't silent; they were alive, watching, cataloguing. The city or whatever held it together knew I was observing.
Jonas kept talking, unaware I wasn't listening to him at all. I watched guards, how they shifted weight, how they glanced at each other. Noticed a hurried hand gesture, someone signaling another faction. Noted a scratch mark freshly carved into the concrete, a warning? A claim? Either way, it was information. And information was power.
Charm, brutality, philosophy. Each method had its predictable pattern. I could see it, already plotting in the back of my mind. If Carrow's people bled Krain's, if Lyric's whispers turned loyalty against itself… There was an opportunity. A way to slip between the cracks unnoticed, unnoticed, and unscathed.
I muttered softly, almost to myself: "If they can bleed each other, maybe I can cut the vein."
Jonas glanced at me, puzzled, or maybe amused. I smiled faintly, letting it appear casual, letting him think I was impressed or intimidated. Neither was true. Every detail mattered; every observation counted. The Syndicate wasn't a hive. It was a battlefield disguised as order.
And in the Veins, every pulse, every drip, every distant footstep reminded me: survive first, plan second, manipulate later. Observation was more lethal than any blade here.
We stopped at a junction. Jonas gestured again, explaining some minor faction rule, and I nodded, filing it away for later. My eyes scanned shadows, exits, the faint glint of metal where no one should have been. Every detail of a move in a game I was just starting to understand.
The city's heartbeat pulsed beneath my feet. And somewhere, between charm and cruelty, philosophy and fear, I realized: chaos isn't a weakness. It's an opportunity. And I intended to exploit every single one.