The corridor smelled like damp stone and old metal, the kind of scent that seeps into your clothes and your skull. My boots echoed off the walls, each step loud enough to make me think the world was listening.
Click… scrape… drip…
Someone else was here. Watching. Waiting.
I rounded a corner, and there it was. Not a shadow. Not a trick of the neon light. A person. Tall, scarred, deliberate. The emblem was burned into their leather jacket. Familiar. Wrongly familiar.
"You're far too persistent," the figure said, voice low and rough. Almost amused. Almost human.
I froze, trying to find the right mix of sarcasm and bravado. "Oh, hey… you're the friendly type, I see. How's the nightlife treating you?"
No response. Just a slow, deliberate step closer. The scars caught the dim light. Ritualistic, intentional. This wasn't a random thug. Someone had been molded, shaped, trained. A soldier of the city's underworld.
Click… tap… drip…
The figure gestured to the wall behind them. Symbols, marks, emblems dozens of them, etched and scrawled in careful repetition. "Each mark is a choice," the watcher said, voice flat. "Each step is a filter. Only the ones who survive… get to join us."
I swallowed. Humor faltered. "So… I'm auditioning for… what exactly? A really violent book club?"
A faint chuckle, dry and hollow. "You're the prey, the candidate, the survivor. Pick your label. It doesn't matter. What matters is the test. And you, Dylan… have been chosen."
Click… scrape… drip…
I could feel the city pressing in from all sides, shadows forming cages around me. The watcher's eyes didn't move, but I could feel the calculation behind them. They weren't just human they were the embodiment of the network's rules.
"Join us… or walk away," the watcher said, gesturing vaguely to a darkened passage. "But know this. There's no walking away. Only surviving."
A gust of wind rattled a loose pipe above.
Splash… splash…
My pulse hammered in my ears. Every instinct screamed to run. Every sarcastic muscle in my body itched for a quip.
"Well," I muttered, voice tight, teeth gritted, "I've always been bad at following rules. Guess we'll see how bad. Mom called me a rebel"
Click… tap…
The watcher stepped back into the shadows, disappearing like smoke. But the message lingered, etched into the air, the walls, my head: The game isn't chaos. It's designed. And now… you're in it.
I pocketed a small, metallic emblem left on the floor. Cold. Precise. Personal. Another breadcrumb. Another test. Another warning.
Splash… drip…
The city hummed, patient, indifferent. Alive. And I realized, fully, that every mark, every shadow, every echo from the walls was meant for me. The network wasn't just real. It was tailored. And I wasn't walking anymore. I was moving through a gauntlet.
Splash… click… drip…
I took a deep breath, letting the damp air fill my lungs. "Fine," I muttered under my breath, sarcastic but determined. "Let's see who folds first. Spoiler alert: it's not going to be me."