The corridor was quieter than usual, too quiet, like the city itself was holding its breath. My boots barely whispered against the damp concrete, but the echo of distant dripping seemed louder than ever. I followed Jonas, but not too closely this was my world to observe now, and I intended to see everything.
Ahead, a chamber opened, dimly lit by flickering overhead lights. Shadows danced against the walls, moving with a rhythm that was both hypnotic and deliberate. And there it was: the scene.
A rival faction's runner was trapped beneath a fallen girder. His limbs twisted at impossible angles, every motion a silent scream. The others didn't move guards, Syndicate members, or perhaps witnesses. I couldn't tell. Silence stretched until it snapped with the metallic clang of falling debris.
Jonas' voice was calm, almost casual. "First lesson, Dylan. This is how the Syndicate teaches obedience."
I tilted my head, sarcasm ready as ever. "Obedience. Got it. Fear plus gravity. Elegant."
But my eyes weren't laughing. I watched the subtle cues, the way the girder fell too precisely, how the supports above looked recently tampered with, the slight smirk from someone in the shadows who vanished before I could blink. This wasn't an accident. Nothing in these tunnels was.
Thrum… drip… metallic echo…
I stepped back slightly, keeping my hands loose, my posture casual. My mind catalogued every detail: timing, positioning, exit routes, who stayed silent, who left too soon. Every piece mattered. The Syndicate didn't just kill. It choreographed. Every "accident" was a message, a warning, a power move.
I muttered under my breath, sarcasm tinged with cold calculation: "Accidents don't file paperwork. Someone signed off on this."
The runner's face was pale, eyes wide with disbelief. He wasn't looking at me. He didn't need to. The lesson was universal: survive, comply, or vanish. And everyone watching knew it.
I noticed Jonas's shift slightly, nothing overt, but enough to mark him as another observer. He wasn't just showing me the ropes. He was testing me. My reactions, my calculations, my ability to absorb without flinching.
Somewhere deep in the tunnels, the city thrummed, indifferent. Machines hummed, water dripped, metal groaned. The pulse of it all mirrored my own heartbeat, faster now, sharper. Observation was survival. Every blink, every note, every whisper could tip the balance between life and death.
By the time the chamber emptied, the lesson was clear. Power in the Veins was measured not in weapons or numbers, but in precision, control, and the willingness to let the inevitable happen.
I stepped out, dust settling around my boots, muttering softly, a faint smirk on my face despite the horror: "Lesson learned. Chaos isn't random. It's… elegantly designed."
And somewhere behind the walls, the city whispered again: Watch, Dylan. Every move counts