The room was bigger than any chamber I'd seen in the Veins, yet smaller than it should have been, suffocating in its precision. Screens lined every wall, flickering faces, maps, transactions, events a mosaic of lives I'd glimpsed, some I'd touched, most I hadn't. The hum of machinery was constant, a low, vibrating heartbeat that pressed against my skull.
Click… whir… static.
I stepped forward, boots hesitant, echoing in the metallic chamber. Every flicker of light seemed timed, deliberate, a signal I hadn't yet understood. And then I saw it the largest screen, dominating the wall ahead, and a shadow coalesced. Not a face. Not even a figure, exactly. Just a dark shape, calm, immovable, absolute.
"Welcome to the Syndicate, Dylan," the voice cut through the hum, smooth and cold, each word measured. "You've already passed the test."
I froze, every instinct screaming that the test was never about survival, not really. It had been about observation. Compliance. Prediction. Every choice I thought was mine, every misstep, every clever dodge, anticipated.
The screens around me flickered faster now, images I recognized meetings I'd attended, traps I'd narrowly escaped, betrayals I'd barely survived. It wasn't chaos. It was choreography. I was always inside. Always on display. Always part of the game.
A soft whir from the machinery shifted, like a subtle sigh, almost human.
I swallowed, the taste of iron in my mouth. My hands itched to touch the screens, to swipe at the illusions, but I knew every movement had been accounted for. Every breath catalogued.
"You didn't join," the shadow continued, voice unyielding. "You've always belonged."
I forced a laugh, dry, short, more to hear my own voice than defiance. "Belonged… huh. Funny way to sell it."
No response. Just the hum, the flickers, the sense of being watched from every angle. My stomach twisted, my chest tightening with the realization: there was no escape. No ally. No secret exit. Only the Architect and the game he had woven.
I looked closer at the screens tiny anomalies, subtle patterns, movements barely perceptible. The Architect wasn't just watching. He was controlling. Anticipating. Writing the story as I moved through it, page by page, trap by trap.
And somewhere beneath it all, deep in the hum, I understood the cruelest truth. I hadn't passed a test. I had been the test.
Silence. Except for the low, constant hum.
I let the realization sink in. My freedom had never existed. The Syndicate wasn't a choice. It was a cage, invisible, omnipresent, unyielding. And I had walked right into it, thinking I was clever.
I took a step back, heart hammering, eyes locked on the shadow. The Architect's presence filled the room, stretched across the screens, seeped into the walls, into the hum.
The last thought that cut through everything else, sharper than fear, sharper than rage, was this: I didn't join. I had never had the chance.
And the test wasn't over.