The tunnels had fallen into an uneasy silence after the collapse. Metal groaned somewhere deep, smoke curled along the walls, and faint sparks danced over puddles of water reflecting fractured light. Every corridor felt alive, whispering warnings I didn't need.
Drip… low hum… distant metallic scrape…
The Detective appeared at the edge of the smoke, calm as ever, blade glinting in the flickering light. One hand rested lightly on the hilt, the other tucked behind his back as though the tension in the air belonged to me, not him.
"One last choice," he said, voice measured. "Yours to make. And it will define everything."
I froze. My hands itched not from fear, not yet but from calculation. Every instinct screamed that this moment was a pivot, a fulcrum. One move, one choice, and the entire path I'd carved through the Syndicate could pivot into something irreversible.
I let my sarcasm slide first, because it always does, even when my stomach knots. "Oh, fantastic. A blade and a philosophical lecture. Did you plan that, or was it just convenient?"
He didn't respond. Just tilted his head, eyes narrowing. Calm, patient, a mirror reflecting what I might become. Or what I already was.
I could feel the weight of it: every step, every betrayal, every manipulation had led here. All the fires I'd started, the lies I'd spun, the alliances I'd destroyed they all funneled into this corridor, this knife, this confrontation.
Drip… hiss… soft grinding metal…
I circled him, boots echoing on wet metal grates, weighing the air between us. There was no rush. There was only inevitability. And yet, I wasn't ready to give in not fully. Not to anyone.
"You know," I said finally, voice low, sardonic, letting the tension slip into words, "I always thought endings were overrated. Turns out, they're surprisingly dramatic."
He didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't offer advice. Just watched, steady, almost expectant, as though the final move wasn't about skill but recognition.
I glanced down the corridor, smoke curling from twisted conduits, water dripping from cracked ceilings. The city hummed beneath us, machinery alive with expectation, waiting. Waiting for the choice. Waiting for me.
And then I reached for the blade. Fingers wrapped around cold metal, weight familiar. I felt the gravity of the decision pressing against my chest. Kill or inherit. End or become.
I exhaled, letting the sarcasm rise again, thin and sharp: "Well, Detective… let's see which one of us gets lucky."
The moment stretched. Time hung in the smoke-filled corridor like thick cobwebs. I could feel the past, every manipulation, every calculated lie, every step through fire, converging here. And with a single motion, I accepted the weight, the consequence, the inevitability.
I raised the blade.
Silence answered me first, then the final click as metal met intent.
And the world shifted.