The tunnels stretched before me, half in shadow, half lit by flickering emergency lights. Smoke lingered in the corners, a haze that clung to my coat and reminded me that nothing in this city came easy. Every corridor was scarred, every wall cracked, every panel a subtle taunt: there is no easy way out.
Soft drip… distant metal groan…
I stepped over a fallen beam, scanning the walls for hidden panels, for gaps, for anything I could manipulate. The city was clever, anticipating, rewriting paths as I moved. But clever didn't mean unbeatable. Not yet.
Click… scrape…
Elliot appeared from the shadows, a figure shaped by smoke and warning. His eyes held that same look I'd seen before concern, disbelief, something faintly human. "You don't look for exits anymore. You look for moves," he said, voice low, deliberate.
I smirked, letting the words settle in the air like ash. "Exits don't exist. Only moves."
Thud… distant rumble…
He narrowed his eyes. "That's… very convenient for someone who likes to pretend he's in control."
I leaned against a scorched wall, arms crossed, scanning the labyrinth. Exits, schemes, exits. Who needs them when every wall is a chessboard? My mind traced the tunnels, marking paths, predicting enemy shifts Krain's temper, Lyric's whispers, Carrow's hidden maneuvers. Every obstacle was another piece I could move, every trap another chance to play.
Soft hum… faint metallic click…
"Turns out the city isn't a trap," I muttered, voice low, sardonic, "it's a canvas. And I'm the messy artist."
Elliot shook his head, stepping back. "Don't let it consume you, Dylan. Even pawns have limits."
I watched him disappear down a side corridor, leaving nothing but smoke and echoing footsteps. The reminder stung faintly, like cold metal against skin. I didn't chase him. I didn't need to. Exits didn't matter anymore. Moves did. And I was very, very good at moving.
Rattle… faint stone shift…
I ran through possibilities, mentally shuffling pawns, predicting reactions, and folding chaos into order. Each corridor, each crumbling wall, each flicker of light became a data point. The city was anticipating me, yes. But so was I. Every move I made was a response, a counter, a trap of my own.
Soft hiss… distant scrape…
I straightened, brushing ash from my hands. Shadows stretched long across the tunnels, waiting for someone to stumble. I didn't stumble. I never did. Not when the game mattered, not when the pieces were mine to manipulate.
I whispered, sardonic, low enough only the walls could hear: "Exits? Overrated. Moves? Delicious."