The tunnels smelled of damp stone and rust, a faint hum of hidden machinery vibrating beneath my boots. Shadows clung to the corners, folding into themselves, whispering secrets I didn't need to ask for. Drip… drip… water from a fractured pipe above marked the slow, deliberate rhythm of my thoughts.
I stopped in the middle of the corridor, letting the adrenaline fade, letting my pulse settle into something colder, sharper. Jonas' grin flashed briefly in my memory so smug, so sure of his control. And for a second, I let him believe it.
hum… drip… scrape…
I leaned against the wall, fingers brushing over a rough patch of concrete. Each mark, each echo in these veins, told a story. The ambush had been expected, orchestrated. Jonas had tested me. Fine. Let him play his game. I'd play mine.
"Every man for himself?" I muttered, voice low, almost conversational. Sarcasm, my armor, curled around the edges of my thoughts. "Fine. Let's see how far that rule really goes."
Drip… hum… click…
I cataloged everything from the encounter the spacing of the attackers, the timing, Jonas' casual posture at the edge, the way he thought he'd seen through me. And then I made a choice. Not reaction, not anger, not confrontation. Observation. Patience. Manipulation. Let him think he controlled the narrative while I began shaping it in the shadows.
shuffle… scrape… hum…
A slow smile crept across my face, quiet, almost invisible, but lethal in intent. It wasn't satisfactory. It wasn't relief. It was recognition. The first conscious act of strategy. Jonas had played his card. I would play the next on my terms.
The tunnels hummed, drip… drip… echoing, indifferent. And somewhere between shadow and concrete, I felt it the subtle, sweet weight of advantage. Knowledge, patience, and timing. The real game had just begun.
scrape… drip… hum…