Smoke curled through the corridors, thin and persistent, carrying the faint tang of metal and dust. The flickering lights cast long shadows, and every corner seemed alive, waiting for a misstep. Victory had a scent burned steel and overconfidence and I breathed it in, only to feel it sour almost immediately.
Soft hiss… distant clank…
A figure stepped out from the haze. Calm. Unhurried. The Detective.
"You think you've won?" His voice sliced through the quiet. Smooth, controlled. "Every choice you make, he already accounted for."
I paused, hand brushing the rail for balance, eyes narrowing. Smoke swirled between us like a half-remembered memory. "So," I said, voice low, sarcasm slipping in despite the unease, "the puppet master has a master. Lovely."
Rattle… soft metallic echo…
He didn't flinch. Didn't answer. Just watched, letting the words hang. My chest tightened. Every lieutenant, every misstep, every manipulation it was all in the Architect's ledger. My triumph? Just another predictable entry.
Soft scrape… distant hum…
"Then maybe I'll surprise him," I muttered, more to the smoke than him, letting a flicker of defiance slip into my tone. I hated admitting it, hated the tremor in my own confidence. But it was there.
Soft echo of shifting debris…
The Detective's eyes narrowed, calm as ever. "You won't."
I let a dry laugh escape me, the kind that tasted bitter and sharp. "We'll see about that." My fingers brushed the edge of a fallen panel, tracing possibilities, moves, contingencies. The Veins hummed faintly beneath us, indifferent to who had won or lost.
Soft clatter… distant groan of a settling wall…
Smoke curled higher, obscuring him almost entirely, and I stepped forward, smirk faint, heartbeat steady. One thing was clear: the game wasn't mine alone, not anymore. The Architect had already written the next move. And I… well, I wasn't done playing yet.