The tunnels smelled of damp concrete and old rust, the hum of hidden machinery vibrating faintly through the floor. Shadows shifted along the walls, stretching like fingers, and the drip… drip… of water echoed somewhere far ahead, a slow, deliberate countdown.
Jonas walked ahead, calm and easy, his boots barely making a sound against the grime. "Come on, Dylan. Trust me, this is important," he said, his grin sharp, rehearsed.
I raised an eyebrow. Of course. Trust the guy who almost got me killed last week. Brilliant plan. My pulse ticked faster, alert and calculating. Observation first, survival second, sarcasm always.
scrape… click… hum…
I noticed the subtle clues almost immediately: wet footprints diverging from Jonas' path, a flicker of light reflecting off something metallic in the corner, a shadow that didn't match our movement. Nothing screamed danger yet everything whispered it.
I followed careful, letting my mind catalog everything. "Sure, Jonas, lead the way into the welcoming committee of knives. Fantastic," I muttered under my breath, letting my sarcasm cover the tightening coil of tension in my chest.
The corridor opened into a larger room, dimly lit, crates stacked unevenly along the walls. The hum of machinery seemed louder here, vibrating in rhythm with my pulse. And then they appeared. Figures, crouched, masked silent, still, waiting.
I froze for a heartbeat, letting my eyes trace the angles, the spacing, the faint shimmer of blades. Nothing was random. Every step I'd taken, every detail I'd noticed, every shadow I'd cataloged came into play.
clink… shuffle…
The first move came a low, sudden shift as a thug lunged from the corner. I pivoted, barely missing the strike, and moved instinctively, slipping behind crates, tracking each attacker's approach. Jonas stayed at the edge, watching, calm as ever. Too calm.
"Really?" I muttered, sarcasm slicing through fear. "A party in my honor, complete with knives and poor lighting. How considerate."
I dodged another swing, eyes catching a loose pipe overhead, the drip… drip… echoing like a metronome. One careful kick, and the pipe shifted, creating a brief barrier. Another step, another calculation angles, timing, momentum. Survival wasn't luck. It was observation.
When the last figure lunged, I slipped through a narrow gap between crates, Jonas' expression unchanged, his grin too perfect. The attackers, gone, leaving only the hum of the machinery and the slow drip… drip… of water.
I let a slow, bitter smile creep across my face. Jonas thought he'd orchestrated the perfect trap. I thought differently. Lesson learned, advantage noted. And while he believed I still needed him, I began planning the seeds of fake trust, preparing for the next move, the next betrayal.
drip… hum… scrape…
The tunnels swallowed the noise, indifferent. And I straightened my shoulders, sarcasm ready, mind sharp, eyes cataloging everything. The Setup wasn't just a trap; it was a reminder. In this city, in these veins, knowledge was the only weapon.