The streets were unnervingly quiet, the city holding its breath as if waiting for something to break. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching across walls and pavement, bending unnaturally under the weak glow of the overhead lights.
Drip… drip…
I moved slowly, boots pressing against damp patches, careful not to alert anyone or anything. Every step carried the weight of observation, every echo a question I wasn't sure I wanted answered. The chaos of the Syndicate's factions was escalating, but something deeper threaded through it, a pattern I hadn't noticed until now.
A hum ran beneath the city, subtle, electric, vibrating in my chest. Not machinery I'd seen, not something I could trace. It was deliberate. Controlled. Watching.
I stopped at a corner, peering down an alley. Empty. Too empty. My mind traced back over the past weeks ambushes, "rescues," miscommunications, coincidences that felt like breadcrumbs. Nothing had been random.
Then it came, so faint I almost missed it: a whisper, filtered and distorted, carried on the still air like a shadow crawling across my skin.
"Every man for himself, Dylan. Except me."
The words slid under my ribs, cold and precise. Not from a person. Not from the walls. From the city itself or rather, from someone who owned it.
I froze, chest tightening. Every encounter, every fracture, every betrayal suddenly clicked into place. The Syndicate wasn't just a war of factions. It was a chessboard. And someone had been moving the pieces all along.
My fingers twitched at my sides, mind racing through every moment that had seemed chance. Streets that shifted, allies that vanished, enemies that appeared in perfect timing this wasn't chaos. This was orchestration.
Drip… drip…
I swallowed. The city around me felt heavier, darker, alive with intent. The hum beneath the streets grew louder, vibrating through my teeth, through my bones.
And for the first time, I understood: the Architect wasn't just observing. He was orchestrating. Every death, every alliance, every misstep had been anticipated.
I exhaled slowly, chest tight but mind sharper than it had been in weeks. Act III wasn't going to be about surviving faction wars. It was going to be about surviving him.
I stayed in the shadows, silent, watching, calculating. The game had changed, and the stakes had just become personal.