The Veins smelled of damp concrete and faint metal. Footsteps echoed unevenly, bouncing off low ceilings. A distant drip… drip… resonated through the tunnels like a heartbeat, slow, deliberate.
I ducked behind a support beam, watching. Two Syndicate runners argued over a crate, fists barely restrained, knives hidden but obvious. One slipped a finger across a scar on the other's forearm a subtle warning, a signature move. Patterns, I thought. Everything left a signature. Nothing happened by accident here.
shuffle… drip… hum…
I cataloged quietly: who avoided eye contact, who lingered near shadows, who whispered names. A crate toppled. One runner swore under his breath. Another's eyes flicked to the corner—they weren't alone. Chaos, yes. But organized. Each small clash was a thread in the web.
I muttered, "This isn't an empire. It's a feeding frenzy." Sarcasm wrapped around the words, soft but biting. Maybe I could use this. Maybe I could become the predator hiding among scavengers.
metal scrape… echo… drip…
A low chuckle escaped me as I watched a knife slip between two fingers without even touching the edge. Observation. Timing. Control. If these idiots could bleed each other this openly, then maybe, just maybe, I could cut the vein instead.
The runners' bickering escalated. One shoved the other into a stack of crates, almost toppling it. Perfect chaos. I made a note: tension spots, weak nerves, potential leverage points. Everything counted.
I stepped back into the shadowed corridor, letting them fight for the illusion of power while I mapped the battlefield in my mind. The city hummed around me, alive and patient, waiting to see who would survive.
"And they say office politics are dull," I muttered, voice low, sarcastic. "Please. This is executive-level chaos."