Panels buckled. Beams groaned. The Veins weren't just alive anymore they were furious.
Crack… hiss… clatter…
I moved through the corridors like a shadow, cataloging each fracture, each tremor, each misaligned pipe. Sparks shot from failing conduits, hissing steam scalding the air. Every step was a calculation; misstep meant being swallowed by the chaos I'd helped ignite.
Beneath me, the machinery pulsed violently. The hum was no longer background noise. It was a heartbeat, erratic, enraged. Sections of flooring flexed underfoot, reminding me how thin the margin between survival and obliteration really was.
A scream echoed, quickly drowned by the roar of tearing metal. Civilians, panicked, scrambled through smoke-choked hallways. I noted their movements, the smallest hesitation, the weight of fear translating into missteps. One child tripped over a loose panel; instinct made me reach out, but the space was too tight, too fast. Not my fight. Not mine to save.
Boom… rumble… drip…
Walls shuddered as if the Architect himself had grabbed the city by its veins. Ceiling panels crashed in showers of sparks, fire licking the edges, a reminder that destruction doesn't need subtlety. I ducked beneath a falling pipe, tracing the trajectory, mentally mapping the collapse. Patterns, always patterns. Chaos, meticulously cataloged.
I glimpsed a civilian clutching a burned sigil on the wall one of the Architect's messages left for those brave or foolish enough to notice. I smirked, ignoring the irony. "Nice branding. If only it came with instructions."
Low rumble… metallic screech… hiss…
Every corridor seemed to shrink, every exit blocked by debris. The city was alive, punishing, rewriting its own architecture. My boots bounced over warped floors, my hands finding purchase on railings, edges, anything that promised safety for another second. A minor miracle in a world designed to kill methodically.
And through it all, I cataloged, I analyzed, I survived. Not out of heroism. Not for morality. For leverage. Knowledge is power. In a collapsing city, it's also the only thing keeping your head attached to your shoulders.
Finally, I paused on a raised platform, watching a portion of the ceiling give way in slow motion. Fire sparked along the beams. Civilians scrambled, cursing, panicked. Machinery groaned. Pipes hissed. And I, perched above it all, murmured, letting the irony sink in:
"Well, that's one way to redecorate."