The tunnels smelled of wet concrete, iron, and smoke a mix that clung to your lungs if you breathed too deep. Water pooled in cracks along the floor, reflecting flickering lights in a fractured, trembling pattern.
drip… clatter… hum… echo…
I stepped carefully, boots echoing softly against the slick ground. Ahead, a small crowd had gathered, faces tense, backs rigid, shadows stretching across the walls like silent spectators. In the center, a man knelt, hands bound, the faint scrape of rope against stone filling the space.
"Stay still," a voice snapped, smooth and detached. One of the lieutenant's men approached, blade glinting in the dim light.
drip… clatter… hum… echo…
I crouched slightly, letting my eyes scan every movement, every subtle twitch. Some faction members flinched at the blade; others leaned in as if curious rather than afraid. The victim raised his head, staring at nothing, at everyone, at me.
"The Architect sees everything!" he yelled, voice hoarse, echoing down the corridor.
The words slammed into me harder than any punch. Every death, every staged accident, every move I'd noted it all connected. He wasn't just a rumor. The Architect was watching. Always.
drip… clatter… hum… echo…
I let my sarcasm slip quietly under my breath, more reflex than relief. "Lovely. Someone's always watching. Fantastic." But my eyes didn't waver from the scene. Observing was survival. Observing was leverage. Every twitch, every breath, every shiver could tell me more about who trusted whom, who feared what.
The blade descended. A wet snap echoed. The crowd shifted, tension snapping back into motion. Some faces betrayed satisfaction, others horror. Patterns. I cataloged them all. A staggered breath here, a flinch there nothing escaped me.
drip… clatter… hum… echo…
When it was over, silence reclaimed the tunnel, thick and oppressive. I stepped back, boots leaving shallow prints in the damp. My chest tightened, adrenaline coursing through a cold thrill. The Syndicate didn't just run on fear it ran on orchestrated chaos. And now, I realized, the Architect wasn't just a presence. He was the current running through it all.
I muttered to myself, dry as ever, masking dread with wit: "So that's the guy keeping score. Charming."
drip… clatter… hum… echo…
Every eye in the crowd had moved, every whisper was cataloged, every shadow remembered. And I, standing at the edge, realized the deeper I went, the less the Veins were mine to navigate except as a careful observer, waiting for the current to shift in my favor.