Back in my cramped apartment, I spread the emblems and marks across the floor. Maps scribbled on scrap paper, notes in margins, the faint smell of ink and damp concrete still clinging to my coat.
Patterns. Routes. Connections I shouldn't see but did anyway. Every emblem, every mark, every scratch pointed somewhere abandoned, somewhere dangerous.
"Brilliant," I muttered. "Someone's choreographing this city like a dance floor. And guess who's the unwitting dancer?"
I knew it, I should have learned salsa
The inner voice fought me: Walk away. Forget it. Go back to the safe, boring streets.
Ha. Safe? Boring? That was never me.
Click… click… a memory of footsteps echoing in alleys. Someone was always close. Following, observing, testing. I felt the paranoia creeping in, a thin, cold line along my spine.
A glance at the window. Neon reflections flickered on puddles outside. Shadows moved too deliberately. Could I be imagining it? Nope. Never.
I mapped another path. Emblems led to a forgotten warehouse district, the skeleton of old factories, crumbling and silent, except for the occasional drip or hum of water.
"Lovely," I muttered. "A playground for ghosts and psychopaths. Just my type of party."
I took a deep breath, heart racing. The alley outside my window whispered reminders: this wasn't coincidence. Someone had noticed. Someone had tailored this game for me.
Suddenly, a muffled thud from below metal against concrete. I froze. Not imagination. Not a coincidence. Movement, deliberate. Someone had arrived. Watching. Waiting.
And as always, I had to respond.
I grabbed my coat, pocketed a pen knife, and stepped back into the rain-slicked streets. Every step, every puddle, every shadow was a clue. I wasn't just noticing anymore. I was part of the pattern.
Splash… splash…
The city hummed around me, indifferent, patient, alive. And I knew one thing for certain: walking away wasn't an option. Not now.