The outpost was a graveyard of half-burned reports and toppled chairs, a chaos left behind by those who thought survival meant scattering into the tunnels. Dust floated in slivers of weak light, coating the room like a fine gray veil. Every step I took stirred memories of battles past though this one promised no explosions, only precision.
Drip… faint creak… distant metal clang…
Something moved in the shadows. Not a person yet, not fully. Just traces misplaced papers, footprints leading nowhere, a faint hum of a generator someone had rigged to signal presence. Carrow.
I smirked. "Carrow, hiding in the shadows, thinking she's clever. Cute. Really cute."
I crouched, fingers brushing a console. A series of subtle triggers, planted long ago, confirmed my suspicion: she was hoarding information, plotting, waiting for a weakness in my chaos to exploit. Foolish, dangerous, but predictable.
Click… soft hiss…
No direct confrontation. Never direct when subtlety works better. I let the pieces fall into place: Lyric, still nursing his own ego, would serve as bait. A misdirected alert, a whispered report of vulnerability, a corridor left "unguarded" all orchestrated. The dance began before Carrow even realized it.
Rumble… distant thud… shifting rubble…
Her network unraveled with quiet efficiency. Men she trusted scrambled, signals failed, doors she thought secret swung open to reveal the emptiness I designed. She moved through the chaos like a cat chasing a phantom, only to find that the phantom had been me all along.
Soft scrape… metallic echo…
Carrow appeared finally, flanked by the remnants of her loyalists, eyes wide, calculating. She realized too late that she had walked into my design. Every contingency she had prepared, every pawn she had maneuvered, had been anticipated and neutralized.
I stepped from the shadows, hands clean, coat dusted with gray. "Two birds, one trap. Efficiency looks good on me."
Her expression flickered anger, disbelief, and a shred of admiration I doubted she'd admit. I didn't give her the satisfaction of words. Watching was enough. Watching the meticulous web she had built collapse under her own weight, orchestrated by a hand she hadn't even noticed.
Drip… faint hum… soft clatter…
By the time she moved, it was already over. Lyric, manipulated into her path, met her as planned, exposing both her and himself. The room stilled, the last threads of her control vanishing in the aftermath of a strategy she hadn't seen.
I folded my hands behind my back, surveying the quiet ruin. The room smelled of dust, smoke, and the faint perfume of fear. Victory didn't need grand gestures. Subtlety was cleaner, quieter, and infinitely more satisfying.
I allowed myself a smirk, sardonic, calm. "And just like that, the web untangles itself. Who knew strings could be so predictable?"
The shadows swallowed her retreating form, but I didn't follow. There was no rush. The next move, the next confrontation, would come on my terms. Always on my terms.