I watched the gates seal one by one, metal teeth sliding into place with a precision that made me itch to rewrite the entire blueprint. Every corridor I knew, every hidden panel, every exit I'd memorized gone. The Veins weren't just locked down. They were mocking me.
The Architect's voice rolled through the intercom, smooth as oil, calm as if reading bedtime stories: "You initiated, Dylan. The hierarchy is yours to accept."
I raised an eyebrow. Hierarchy? Cute. I almost applauded. "Initiated," he said. "Forced into order."
Forced. The word landed heavy, like a gauntlet thrown. I traced my hand over the console before me, fingertips brushing cold metal. I could press it. I could surrender. Or I could do something else. Something that would make sure the Architect knew that control was never absolute.
Click… the faintest echo of machinery reminding me I was still alive.
I let my gaze wander over the blinking panels, the locked chambers, the lights that dared flicker in my presence. Each one told a story of planning, calculation, anticipation. Every move I'd made, every subtle rebellion, cataloged, expected, curated.
A dry laugh escaped me. "Curated," I muttered. "Like a museum exhibit. Only problem? Museums don't fight back."
The console blinked, waiting for my touch. The gates hummed around me, the Veins straining against their own restraints. I hovered my hand over the initiation key, feeling the weight of expectation, the pull of inevitability.
And then I smirked.
"Well, Architect," I said, voice low, echoing against metal walls, "you built the perfect trap. Shame it's still missing one thing… me."
I let my hand hover. Not pressing. Not submitting. Watching. Waiting. Even when cornered, even when the whole system screamed that I was finished, the last word, the last move, remained mine.
Because you don't tame a fire. You survive it. And maybe, just maybe, you let it burn a little brighter on your own terms.