The smoke had thinned, leaving the corridors slick with ash and the faint tang of blood. Shadows clung to the walls like secrets, stretching long and restless under the flickering lights. The chaos had quieted, but the silence wasn't comforting it was deliberate.
Soft drip… distant metallic echo…
I stepped forward, eyes scanning for survivors, hidden traps, anything out of place. And then I saw it. Painted in fresh blood, stark against the cold concrete, the sigil of the Architect. Angular, precise, impossible to ignore. It pulsed in the dim light, as though aware I was watching.
Soft hum… faint whispering echo…
I stopped, breath catching. Every misstep, every manipulation, every small victory I realized it had all been anticipated. Even this moment, even this discovery, was a part of the Architect's design. My mind ticked through the possibilities, the betrayals, the strategies… all accounted for, cataloged, curated.
Soft scrape… distant clatter of debris…
A dry laugh escaped me, bitter and low. "Well," I muttered, voice barely a whisper, "I played well… apparently according to his scoreboard." The irony hit like cold water. Every move counted. Except mine. Or so he wanted me to think.
Soft shift… faint echo of dripping blood…
I stepped closer to the sigil, tracing its sharp edges with my eyes. It wasn't just a mark it was a statement. A reminder that no victory was real, no rebellion complete. The web stretched wider than I could see. And I had only touched a branch.
Soft hiss… distant groan…
But still, I smirked. Dark, tight, a flicker of defiance in the shadows. "Every move counted. Except mine… let's see who blinks first." My words hung in the air, swallowed by the tunnels, unanswered yet charged with intent.
The sigil glowed faintly, a silent witness to the end of this whole act, I was winning, or so I thought. But the Architect's hand hovered unseen, the board still moving.
And I? I was ready to make my next move.