Smoke twisted through the hallways like a living thing, curling around broken beams and scorched metal. I stepped over a fallen panel, boots crunching lightly against debris, thinking the silence was almost too polite. Almost.
Crackle… groan…
From the haze, a figure emerged. Slim, purposeful, eyes sharp. Detective. The ghost who refused to leave the ruins behind, like a shadow with opinions.
"Oh, perfect," I muttered, voice low and dry. "The moral compass appears fashionably late."
He didn't smile. "You think you've won? Wars are distractions. The real fight hasn't started."
I tilted my head, sarcasm shielding the twitch of unease. "Wars are distractions? Thanks for the TED Talk. Really enlightening."
Rattle… drip…
He stepped closer, boots silent over rubble. I noticed small details his stance, the way he scanned the walls, even the slight smudge of ash on his coat. Subtle reminders that he had been here before, that he had watched, that nothing was accidental.
Hiss… pop…
"Funny," I said, voice dry, "I was starting to enjoy the quiet."
He didn't answer, just let the words hang. And suddenly, the quiet didn't feel like a gift. It felt like a warning.
Scrape… soft hum…
I circled, keeping my distance but cataloging him as I would any other piece of the city's chessboard. The smoke framed him perfectly, a specter of inevitability. My fingers twitched toward the nearest panel, a habit I'd never lost, reminding me that even a moment of stillness was a calculation.
Click… faint rumble…
"Real fight hasn't started, huh?" I murmured, sarcasm slipping slightly, sharper now. "And here I thought I was the dramatic one."
He didn't flinch. Just watched, letting me realize I was a player on a board bigger than my victories.
I adjusted my stance, boots scuffing lightly. Smoke, rubble, the faint scent of fire and iron, and him watching, measuring.
"Right," I said finally, voice flat but edged. "Guess it's time to learn new rules."