The corridor narrowed, the walls pressing closer, shadows pooling in corners like waiting predators. I stepped into a small chamber, dust motes dancing in the dim shafts of light. Silence, except for the faint hum of distant machinery, made every footstep sound deafening.
Soft scrape… faint drip…
Graffiti sprawled across the walls, some crude, some deliberate traces of past rebels marking territory, leaving warnings. Symbols scratched into metal, inked onto old posters, paint smeared with forgotten fingers. My eyes caught a mark almost immediately. Elliot's handwriting.
"Watch the cracks."
A twinge of disbelief. Elliot had sworn he hadn't written it. My mind raced. Copycat? Setup? Or a memory playing tricks on me? Each possibility tightened my chest.
Rattle… faint echo of shifting metal…
I ran a finger along the scrawled letters. The message wasn't just a warning it was a mirror. A reflection of my paranoia, a reminder that even the smallest cracks could collapse everything.
A dry chuckle escaped me. "So, someone's playing copycat now. Charming," I muttered, voice low. "I miss the days when betrayal came with a signature."
Soft hum… metallic scrape…
The chamber seemed alive with shadows, the graffiti almost shifting under my gaze. I cataloged each mark, each curve of paint and scratch. None of it random. Nothing ever was. The past and present intertwined, guiding me, mocking me, daring me to trust nothing.
Faint clank… distant drip…
I stepped back, surveying the room, letting the silence fill the space between the marks. Originality is overrated anyway, I thought, letting the words linger in the quiet. My paranoia tightened its grip, sharpening every sense.
Rattle… soft metallic groan…
I exhaled, eyes scanning the walls one last time. "Good. Let the cracks widen," I whispered, smirk tight but faint. "I like watching them grow."