The streets were chaos incarnate. Smoke curled through shattered windows, paint-streaked flames licking the edges of abandoned market stalls. Civilians ran, stumbled, ducked. Some froze, watching the spectacle as if hoping the world would rewind. I cataloged every reaction. Every flinch, every gasp, every sudden stillness. Patterns were emerging.
Clatter… distant scream… shouts.
A child with a Syndicate tag stamped on their sleeve paused mid-step, staring at the burning tenement across the square. Eyes wide, mouth open, trembling. I noted the slight twitch of the shoulder, the uneven breathing. Classic fear response. Teach it wrong, and you can shape them. Teach it right… well, that's dangerous.
Step… scuffle… glass crunch.
Carrow moved past, boots steady, gaze unyielding. He thought himself the center of attention, but his focus was thin. His eyes skipped the small details: a mother clutching a ragged blanket, a man pushing a child ahead of him only to glance at an alleyway for a potential escape route. I saw it all. Every split-second decision.
Rustle… distant shout… soft hiss.
I slipped along the alley walls, noting the secondary paths, the hidden conduits, the fire's slow creep across wooden barricades. The Veins hummed beneath my feet, vibrating with anticipation, carrying the tension like a drumbeat. One misstep, one poorly timed intervention, and a wall of chaos would cascade through the district.
A man screamed. Someone fell. No one helped. Perfect.
I tilted my head, observing the controlled pandemonium I'd nudged into motion. Chaos was art when you knew the brush strokes. And me? I was enjoying the gallery view.
Clank… muffled shout… distant crash.
"Ah," I muttered, surveying the scene, "nothing like a little civic restructuring to brighten the afternoon."
I straightened my jacket and moved on, shadows blending with smoke, leaving the city to its own beautifully orchestrated mess.