I watched the supply dock from above, crouched where shadows clung to the steel girders. Crates lined the floor like obedient soldiers, labels facing the wrong way, some scratched, some too clean. Timing was everything. Every movement had to suggest order, not manipulation.
shuffle… metallic scrape… distant clank…
Guards drifted through the aisles, predictable as tides. One glanced at a mislabeled crate, paused, frowned, then moved on. Perfect. I traced their patrols mentally, noting blind spots, predictable gestures, and the exact moment when tension cracked into irritation.
I touched a crate, letting the paint scuff from the crate press under my fingers. A tiny signature to the observant, an invisible "gotcha" to the rest. Lyric would see it first and assume Carrow's negligence. Carrow would see the same scuff later and suspect Lyric's meddling. It was a perfect loop of doubt, a tiny rebellion planted before the first real fire.
click… hiss… pipe thrum…
The crates weren't heavy enough to strain the supports, yet heavy enough to make a stumble noticeable. I shifted one slightly, just enough that if someone tried to lift it in haste, it would scrape, make a sound, leave a mark. A breadcrumb in chaos. I cataloged every potential slip, every expected curse, every startled glance.
"Delicate work, isn't it?" I murmured, voice lost to the hum. Not to anyone in particular. Mostly to the Veins. Mostly to myself. Predictability was an art form; chaos, merely the canvas.
thud… low scrape… muted clatter…
I leaned back, arms resting on the cold railing, and let the tableau breathe. Both factions would investigate, both would accuse, both would misstep. Meanwhile, I stayed invisible, a ghost tallying the consequences before they even unfolded.
From below, I caught the glimmer of a hand brushing against a crate, hesitation obvious in the motion. That tiny pause was proof the trap was alive. Proof that observation and manipulation worked better than guns and fists, at least in the opening acts.
whir… faint hiss… distant shuffle…
I straightened, shoulders easing. Another step would be made, another misstep would follow, and I'd already know who would trip first. Watching people unravel in microseconds never got old but then, someone had to appreciate the art.
"Go ahead, blame each other. I'll bring the popcorn next time," I muttered, voice flat but sharp. Perfect. Sarcasm that could cut the air if anyone cared to notice.