The hallway ended in a heavy steel door, scuffed and scratched, like it had absorbed decades of secrets. I pressed a palm to its cold surface, letting the vibrations from the corridors seep into my bones. With a hiss and a soft click, the lock gave way.
Faint hum… distant scrape…
Inside, the room stretched farther than I expected. Walls lined with ledgers, digital consoles blinking in quiet rhythm, each folder a small tombstone of betrayal, loyalty, and use. The air smelled faintly of ink, metal, and decay.
Pages whispered as I moved, brushing against them, dust motes dancing in the dim light. I crouched, flipping open a ledger at random. Names, dates, annotations every betrayal, every subtle manipulation noted as though someone had anticipated every move.
Soft clink… hum…
Then I saw it. My own name, neat and clinical, a label beside it: Usefulness: High. Loyalty: None. Kara's name marked as Terminated. My chest tightened. Every calculation, every sarcastic quip, every cautious step documented. Anticipated. Measured. Judged.
A dry laugh escaped me, quiet and bitter. "A scoreboard for human misery. Charming." I traced a finger along the column, imagining the invisible hand that had recorded it all. The meticulousness was unnerving.
Click… faint rustle…
I flicked through other pages: Krain, Carrow, Lyric. Each one noted in detail, strategies outlined, weaknesses cataloged. My paranoia spiked. Had they been watching all along? Was everything I thought I controlled just another move in their plan?
Rattle… distant drip…
I leaned back, letting the room swallow me in its oppressive order. "Well, at least I'm efficient," I muttered, sarcasm failing to mask the unease. Every shadow in the room seemed alive, each flickering panel a witness to my trespass.
Soft metallic scrape…
I stood and scanned the walls again. The ledgers were more than records they were proof. Proof that the Architect, or someone like him, had always known, always cataloged, always predicted. Improvisation was a joke. Spontaneity a myth.
I exhaled slowly, the faint scent of ink and iron filling my lungs. "So much for improvisation. I'm playing a hand already dealt," I murmured, letting the words hang.