The alley was a corridor of chaos. Smoke curled from toppled crates, the acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the copper tang of blood. Shadows twisted against the walls as guards and rebels collided in fleeting bursts of violence.
Clack… scrape… distant shout…
Kara moved with a precision that had once made her untouchable. Now, a rival lunged from the side, a blade cutting her trajectory. She staggered, hair plastered to her sweat-dampened forehead, eyes flashing not fear, not yet, but recognition of miscalculation.
I traced every micro-movement: a slight shift of weight, the tightening of her grip, the half-step toward safety that became a stumble. Patterns. Predictable, repeatable, exploitable.
Rumble… metallic clang… echoing footfalls…
The blood cloth from the knife-palm ritual slipped from her belt, unnoticed by the onlookers. It danced across the floor, a crimson whisper of deception, a signal of what had been set in motion. I allowed my lips to twitch a ghost of a smile. Timing was everything.
From above, I cataloged the crowd, the fighters, the civilians pressed to walls. Panic radiated like heat from a furnace, microbursts of screams punctuating the structured chaos. Every heartbeat, every stagger, every glance fed the invisible ledger in my mind.
Clang… shuffle… muttered curse…
The rival's attack faltered, but the momentum carried Kara toward the edge of a crumbling platform. A handshot glanced off her shoulder, and she slipped, fingers scraping the concrete. I didn't move. I watched. Not indifference, but strategy. Tools had value, and sometimes tools broke spectacularly.
Her eyes locked mine for a fraction too long a silent plea, a question she'd never voice aloud. I cataloged it. Useful, if I remembered later. Deadly, if I ignored.
Faint thud… shifting rubble… a whisper of wind…
And then she vanished from the eye-line of the watchers. Only the blood cloth remained, draped over twisted metal like a small, unreadable sigil. A mark, a message, a consequence of careful manipulation.
I exhaled, letting the scene imprint itself. Allies and pawns blurred in the haze of rebellion. Some burned out fast. Some lingered. Some left scars even after they were gone.
"Guess some tools just burn out faster than others," I muttered, voice low, more to the Veins than anyone else.
No more sound cues. The alley hummed in aftermath, and somewhere in the chaos, Kara's fall became another data point another thread in the fire I was weaving.