The tunnels smelled of smoke and iron. Rubble lined the floor, a chaotic testament to the clash I had orchestrated. Flickering lights cast long, jittering shadows that seemed to mock the survivors as they fled into the deeper veins of the city.
Drip… faint metallic groan… distant clatter…
Elliot stepped from the haze, his silhouette sharp against the flickering glow. His eyes, always unreadable, now held something heavier disbelief, disgust, maybe even sorrow. "You're not even human anymore," he said, voice steady, cutting through the smoke like a blade.
I let a slow, sarcastic smile form, brushing ash from my coat. "Then maybe human isn't good enough," I muttered, voice low, savoring the sting of the words.
Rumble… faint echo of shifting rubble…
He advanced a few steps, hands unclenched, calm but deliberate. "Dylan… look at what you've become. Every choice, every move you've traded yourself for this… this empire of ash."
I tilted my head, surveying the aftermath of the chaos I'd orchestrated. Men and women scrambling, collapsing walls, fires licking the edges of corridors. Oh, moral outrage. How quaint.
Click… soft metallic scrape…
"I'm not a monster," I said, sarcasm sharpened like a knife, "I'm a symptom." My eyes followed a panicked lieutenant darting past a broken pillar, Lyric's men faltering under misinformation I'd planted. The city moved exactly how I anticipated, and the sight should have thrilled me. And it did but a flicker of something else lingered, something I couldn't quite name.
Drip… distant hum…
Elliot's gaze pierced me, seeing through the sarcasm, through the detachment. "You don't even recognize yourself. You think this is strategy, but it's just… destruction."
I shrugged, the gesture casual, almost bored. "Destruction? Nah. I call it… efficiency." Another dry smirk tugged at my lips. "Besides, someone has to make the messy parts look intentional."
Soft hiss… shifting stone…
He shook his head, stepping back, letting the smoke swallow him again. "I don't even recognize you anymore," he muttered. His words weren't an accusation they were a warning, a reflection.
I watched him disappear down a corridor, silent except for the echoes of my own footsteps. The tunnels seemed quieter without him, almost respectful. I inhaled the smoky air, letting the acrid scent mingle with the thrill of control.
Rattle… faint echo of debris settling…
"Cute lecture," I muttered to the empty corridors, sardonic, unbothered, letting my words drift into the smoke. "I'll file it under 'things that don't change outcomes.'"
And with that, I moved deeper into the veins, every step measured, every shadow a reminder: I was still the one directing the chaos, even if someone dared to call it madness.