The streets lay quiet, deceptively so. Smoke curled from the edges of collapsed barricades, and the faint hum of ruined machinery thrummed beneath my boots. I moved with purpose, cataloging every crack, every displaced brick, every shadow that might conceal an observer. Victory had a taste, but it was acrid, like burnt metal lingering on the tongue.
Footfall… distant hum… scrape of debris…
From a half-broken balcony, the Detective's silhouette emerged, almost imperceptible. He didn't step fully into the light, didn't call out. Just watched. A predator sizing up another predator, calm, calculating.
"You just cleared the board for him," he said, voice low, deliberate.
I paused, letting the words sink. The hum of the city beneath me vibrated through the soles of my boots, a reminder that the Veins themselves had noticed. I traced my surroundings, noting lines of sight, potential traps, weak walls, exits. Everything cataloged. Everything exploitable.
"Then I'll flip the board," I muttered under my breath, letting the words roll off the tongue like a challenge and a promise.
A subtle pause. His shadow shifted. "He built the room the board sits in."
That hit differently. My pulse ticked faster, but outwardly, I remained calm. I'd been dancing along strings I didn't even see before, and now the puppeteer was stepping into view.
Click… soft metallic echo… distant wind…
I studied him, cataloged the tilt of his head, the slight curl of his fist, the way his boots didn't scrape but hovered above the rubble, like he was measuring me, testing me, confirming that he still controlled some invisible leverage. I could feel the weight of strategy pressing down on me. Every decision I'd made, every maneuver, now seemed like breadcrumbs leading someone else's way.
He didn't advance. Didn't flinch. Just the words, sharp as knives, sticking in the air: a reminder that control was an illusion, and I had always been a participant in a game far larger than I imagined.
I let out a slow exhale, shaking my head slightly. "Ah, perfect," I said, voice low, sarcastic, tasting the irony. "Victory tastes like someone else's puppet strings. Delicious."
No one else saw. No one else would understand. But I did. And in the quiet chaos, as the city hummed and the shadows lengthened, I cataloged it all. The board was no longer just mine to move. But I still had pieces to play.