The corridor narrowed, walls sweating condensation, faint sparks flickering along exposed conduits. The Detective stepped from the shadows, silhouette sharp against the pulsating veins of light. Every movement measured, deliberate, like a clock counting down to some inevitable reckoning.
Click… drip… faint metallic scrape…
He didn't speak at first. Just watched, letting the silence stretch long enough that my sarcasm itched to escape.
"So," I said finally, voice cutting through the hum, "you've been standing there quietly all dramatic because… what? You enjoy staring at a guy about to make the worst life choice of his career?"
He tilted his head. Calm. Too calm. "You've walked too far into this, Dylan. There's no turning back now. You want freedom? Kill me. Or inherit me."
I blinked. "Inherit you?" I let my lips curl. "Oh, fantastic. A side order of identity crisis with my moral dilemma. Yum."
The Detective's eyes didn't waver. He held the weight of inevitability like a shield. I could almost feel the pulse behind his gaze, syncing with my own racing heartbeat. Every step, every betrayal, every manipulation funneled into this corridor, this moment. And the knife… always the knife.
Drip… hum… metallic echo…
I circled him, boots echoing over wet grates. The tension clung to the walls, thick enough to taste. He didn't move, didn't breathe too loudly, didn't flinch when I shifted. Calm. Methodical. A mirror to the shadow I'd become.
"You know," I said, letting the sarcasm drip, "I always thought confrontations were overrated. Turns out, they're really inconvenient."
No reaction. Good. Let him stew. I could feel the Core beyond these walls, the Architect's pattern pressing in, trying to script the scene. Trying. Not succeeding.
I crouched slightly, hand brushing the wet metal floor, weighing every movement. One lunge, one misstep, and either he or I would be rewritten. Every calculation, every misdirection I'd mastered over the years, funneled into this split second.
Click… hum… drip…
Then he spoke, quiet, measured: "You're not ready for what comes next. But the choice is yours."
I laughed, dry, bitter, letting it slice through the thick tension. "Not ready? Oh, I'm never ready. I just show up anyway. Makes life more interesting."
His eyes narrowed, and in that instant, I knew: this wasn't about killing him. This was about understanding the reflection staring back at me. He wasn't a man. He was the consequence of every choice I'd ever made. Every betrayal, every sly smile, every damn sarcastic comment distilled into one figure standing between me and what I thought was freedom.
I raised my hand toward the blade he offered, fingers brushing cold metal, feeling the weight of inevitability press against my chest.
"Well," I muttered, voice low, sardonic, almost to myself, "let's see if the hero in this story gets lucky… or just gets eaten."
And in that corridor of smoke, light, and whispering walls, the real choice began