Rain drummed the rooftops, pooling in jagged puddles that reflected neon like broken mirrors. The alley smelled of wet concrete, rust, and something faintly metallic blood, maybe, or just the city practicing its scent portfolio. I hugged my coat tighter, boots pressing into slick pavement, muttering, "Fantastic. Evening plans: dodge murderers, admire urban decay, survive by luck or sarcasm. Should be a light night."
Thud… crack… scrape…
The Syndicate enforcer appeared like a ghost with muscle memory. Calm, precise, every movement measured. He broke a man's hand with quiet efficiency, no flair, no theatrics. Just poetry physical poetry. My pulse spiked.
"Oh good," I muttered under my breath. "Physical poetry. I've always wanted front-row seats to a ballet performed entirely with fists and concrete."
Buzz… hum… click…
I crouched behind a dumpster, eyes scanning for pattern: the spacing of crates, the flicker of a broken streetlight, the rhythm of raindrops bouncing off metal barrels. Observation, patience… sarcasm. Still the only toolkit I could trust.
The enforcer moved methodically, silent but aware. Every step seemed rehearsed, calculated, as if he had read the alley like sheet music. My lungs tightened. This wasn't luck. Luck had retired years ago. Survival required noticing the tiny cues: a stray cigarette ash tilting, a puddle's reflection hiding a shadow.
Thud… scrape… drip…
I rolled under a fire escape, boots splashing, keeping low. The enforcer's shadow passed mere inches away. Heart hammering, I whispered, "Observation, patience… and maybe screaming silently into the void. Yep. That counts too."
Click… hum… buzz…
Somewhere across the street, the Hacker's voice crackled faintly through a secured line. "Left side, Dylan. Move left. Pattern broken. They're watching."
"Perfect," I muttered, swerving behind stacked crates. "I always wanted my life dictated by someone whose diet consists entirely of caffeine and cynicism."
Thud… snap… hum…
A misstep a loose pipe underfoot. I froze. The enforcer paused, tilting his head like a cat listening for a mouse. Breath held, mind racing. Then a flicker of neon distracted him, and I slid past, careful to keep my hands visible but my presence minimal.
By the time I cleared the alley and ducked into the shadow of a narrow stairwell, my chest was burning and my coat soaked through. Sarcasm surfaced like armor. "Alright, universe. I've survived poetry, ballet, and a silent critique of my lung capacity. Next performance better come with popcorn."
Buzz… hum… click…
I pressed my back against the cold wall, boots sliding slightly in puddles. Somewhere in the shadows, the enforcer's calm gaze might still be tracking me. Digital veins, physical veins… all connected. And me? I was just a pulse point, blinking, breathing, sarcastic, still alive.
Click… drip… hum…
I muttered to the alley more than myself: "Lesson learned. Observe patterns, improvise like a maniac, and never, ever trust the city to stay polite."
And somewhere, faint beneath the rain, I swore I heard the softest hint of applause.