The tunnels smelled of damp stone and chalk dust, like someone had tried to erase history without noticing the mess left behind. My boots scraped across grit, and the faint scritch of stone underfoot echoed back, uneven, like the city was mocking my pace. Somewhere above, a loose pipe shivered, sending a tiny clank down the walls.
And there it was. Chalk, half-erased, faint, but unmistakable. My chest tightened. I crouched, squinting at the remnants: "Watch the cracks."
Elliot. Only he used that phrase, his signature. Someone had tried to cover it up, smudged it, rubbed it raw, but I caught it anyway. And that meant… he was alive. He was here. Somewhere. Playing his own game.
I muttered under my breath, sarcasm my armor against the sudden surge of paranoia:
"Ghost messages in a concrete tomb. Fantastic. Next, maybe he'll send me a singing telegram."
The faint drip… drip… drip of water punctuated the silence, the tunnels humming with the machinery below. Every sound felt deliberate. Every shadow suspicious. Someone didn't want me finding this. Someone was erasing his trail.
I traced the chalk with a fingertip, careful not to smudge it further, letting my mind work faster than my pulse. Elliot was leaving breadcrumbs, yes but for whom? For me? Or for someone else? And who was following, erasing, making sure I never got the full picture?
Another clank, faint but too close to be coincidence. I froze. Footsteps? No, too light. More like… a shift in the wall, a vibration running under the concrete, as if the city itself had noticed my discovery and was judging.
I let a sarcastic smirk curl onto my face. "Oh, joy. Someone's playing peek-a-boo with my survival. Classic Syndicate hospitality."
I took a deep breath, letting the dripping rhythm sync with my own heartbeat. Observation first, paranoia second, survival a distant but necessary third. I wiped the smudged chalk clean with my sleeve, erasing both message and doubt in one motion. Let them think they had control. Let Elliot or his unseen opponent know I noticed, and that I could act.
I straightened, boots crunching softly on the debris-strewn floor. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering with the humming lights above. Each one a potential threat, each one a possible clue.
And as the faint hum of the tunnels mingled with distant drips and occasional clanks, I muttered to no one:
"Two can play the vanishing act. Let's see who blinks first."
The Veins were silent after that, but I knew better. Silence didn't mean safety. Silence meant waiting. And I always noticed.