The tunnels whispered again, but this time the rhythm was off like a pulse that knew I was listening. Water dripped somewhere ahead, uneven, tapping against metal with impatient insistence. My boots barely made a sound, but the Veins were awake, breathing, judging every hesitant step.
And then it hit me: a mark.
Carved into the concrete wall, sharp and frantic but unmistakable. Fresh. Lines I'd recognize anywhere. Elliot. Alive. Somewhere. And somewhere… possibly watching me.
I crouched, tracing the grooves with a finger, feeling the way the dust hadn't settled yet. Whoever had left it had done so in a hurry, but with intention. Whoever erased or altered previous marks had been even more careful. Someone wanted me to see this. Or maybe to think I did.
I muttered, half to myself, half to the tunnel: "Of course. A breadcrumb in a corridor designed to swallow me whole. Fantastic." Sarcasm curled around the tension like smoke, because if I didn't joke, I'd have to scream.
Thrum… drip… echo…
The mark pulsed in the flickering light, a quiet heartbeat amid the machinery's hum. My mind raced. Elliot's signature phrase, his style, the placement all deliberate. Someone else had been here, too, watching, waiting. Or maybe the city itself had decided I should see it.
Footsteps or maybe echoes reverberated faintly, too distant to pinpoint, too precise to ignore. I catalogued every detail: the angle of scratches, the way the flickering light hit the walls, the faint smear of grime at the edges. Observation was survival. Always.
I straightened, voice low, sarcastic, sharp. "Elliot's here somewhere. Fantastic. And someone wants me to notice… or just enjoy watching me squirm. Either way, thrilling."
The Veins were alive, but not in a comforting way. The machinery hummed, the water dripped, the shadows shifted. The tunnels didn't care about me. But someone human had left a signature. And that changed everything.
I stepped back, eyes darting to the surrounding darkness. Whoever had carved the mark was playing a game. And I wasn't sure yet if I was the player, the pawn, or the target.
I whispered the name aloud, the word tasting sharp in my mouth: "Elliot." Not in hope. Not in fear. In calculation. Curiosity was dangerous, but so was ignoring a clue this obvious.
And the mark glowed faintly in the flickering light, a quiet pulse of certainty in the sea of uncertainty. The Veins waited. Watching. Judging. Waiting for me to move.
I adjusted my gloves, squared my shoulders, and muttered under my breath, sarcasm laced with purpose: "Thread found. Follow it. And hope it doesn't strangle me first."
Because in this city, the smallest mark could mean salvation or death.