Arc 4 : Faction wars
The test wasn't over.
The hum thrummed beneath my boots, vibrating through the steel floor like a heartbeat I couldn't escape.
plink… plink…
Somewhere above, a pipe dripped, hollow, deliberate.
Screens flickered in fractured rhythms, cycling faster, until even my own reflection dissolved into static. For a moment, I wondered if that was the point: erase me until I couldn't tell where I ended and the machine began.
I exhaled, dry.
"Guess congratulations are in order. I survived my own obituary."
No reply. Just the hum, the pressure in the air, the subtle whir of machinery steering thoughts I had convinced myself were my own.
I pressed a hand to the wall. Metal cold as ash, vibrations crawling up my arm. No warmth. No ally. Just the Architect, echoing in steel and circuitry.
Escape? A joke. Every door locked, every stairwell chained, every shortcut led back here. The game wasn't about leaving. It was about surviving bending without breaking, or breaking on their terms.
My gaze fell to the floor near the console. A small scrap gleamed, jagged and warped. Recognition crawled up my spine. A Melted, scarred. A tag left where the man disappeared in the alley.
I picked it up, edges sharp enough to cut. Proof that symbols didn't die. They burned. They scarred. They left traces in the right hands. I slipped it into my pocket. A weight more honest than any ledger or screen.
The hum deepened, vibrating against walls and floor, as if the chamber leaned closer to hear my thoughts.
click…
A panel slid shut somewhere nearby.
I stepped closer to the console, letting the metallic glow paint my face. Fingers hovered, but I didn't touch. Not yet. Observation was power. Analysis was advantage. Beneath it all, a spark kindled stubborn, deliberate.
I whispered, to no one, or perhaps to the Architect himself:
"You built the maze. Fine. I'll be the fire inside it."
The hum didn't falter.
drip… drip…
The soft whir and distant clicks formed a rhythm predictable, manipulable.
But the spark? That one was mine.