The Veins had quieted. Not silent, just… subdued, like the city was holding its breath. Every drip from the ceiling echoed longer than it should, every metallic hum vibrated in the walls like a distant warning. Footsteps? Maybe mine. Maybe someone else's. Hard to tell.
I moved cautiously, boots splashing in shallow puddles, eyes scanning every shadow, every twist of concrete. The tunnels stretched ahead, narrowing and then opening into a jagged alcove. I could feel the city's pulse through the floor, a subtle thrum beneath my feet, a reminder that nothing here was accidental.
And then I heard it.
A name. Whispered. Faint, almost swallowed by the hum of the pipes: "Elliot…"
I froze, heart thumping, mind snapping into overdrive. I wasn't sure if I wanted to move closer or vanish, but curiosity damn it, that stubborn curiosity won.
"Okay… okay," I muttered under my breath. "Not a trap. Not a trap. Maybe." Sarcasm failed me for the first time in hours. My throat went dry, my hands twitching near the black slip in my pocket.
I edged forward, careful not to disturb a single droplet. Every shadow looked like it could conceal a blade, a Syndicate watcher, or some cruel trick. The name had come from somewhere deep, far enough away to make me doubt my ears, close enough to ignite hope.
Elliot… alive.
My mind replayed every encounter from the past weeks. Every half glimpse, every mark on a wall, every breadcrumb I'd followed. Could it be him? Or someone else using his name as bait? The question twisted like a knife.
Thrum… drip… echo…
I crouched near a wall, pressing an ear to the cold concrete. A faint scratch a mark, hurriedly carved caught my eye. Only someone familiar with Elliot's style would leave this. The handwriting, the angle, the small flourish at the end of the line: subtle, desperate, deliberate.
I whispered the name under my breath, almost reverently: "Elliot…" My voice sounded foreign in the empty tunnel, swallowed by the hum of the city and the distant drip of water. For a fraction of a second, I allowed myself hope.
And then the paranoia returned, biting sharp and fast. Shadows shifted, too fluid to be ignored. Someone or something was watching. The Syndicate. The city. Elliot? Maybe all of them. Every instinct screamed: Do not trust what you hear, what you see, or what you feel.
I pressed my back against the damp wall, letting the silence stretch. Waiting. Listening. Calculating. I couldn't confront him not yet. Not here. Not without knowing which side he was on, and if he even had one anymore.
The name hung in the air, fading, leaving a ghost in the tunnels, a pulse in my veins. I couldn't reach him yet, but knowing he was alive changed everything. Just enough to ignite obsession. Just enough to sharpen every sense, every step, every shadow I moved through.
I muttered to the darkness, half sarcastic, half serious: "Alive, huh? Good to know you're still playing. Now let's see if I can survive this game long enough to figure out which side you're really on."
The city thrummed around me, veins alive and watching. I had confirmation, but not clarity. Hope, but no safety. And somewhere deep in the darkness, I felt the first real pull toward him, toward answers, toward the danger I couldn't yet name.