The message in Aran's hand seemed to burn, though it was nothing more than ink on paper. He stood in the center of his dimly lit hideout, staring at the cryptic words as the low hum of city life buzzed outside. Whoever sent this message had gone through great lengths to remain anonymous. That alone was troubling.
"We know what you've been doing. The game has only just begun."
The phrasing made it clear—this was not some idle threat. Someone had been watching him, tracking his every move from the shadows. They had let him build his web of deception, only to strike when it would unsettle him most.
Aran turned the note over, looking for some clue—an insignia, a watermark, anything. But there was nothing. Just the plain, stark reminder that the game he thought he controlled was not entirely under his command. He cursed under his breath.
The calculated calm he usually maintained was slipping, just slightly, but enough for him to recognize it. Aran wasn't one to panic. Panic led to mistakes, and he couldn't afford mistakes, not now. Not when everything was about to come to a head with the Black Hand.
He needed to think.
---
Aran sat down at the small wooden table in the corner of the room, spreading out the other documents and plans he had meticulously prepared. His mind began to spin through every possible scenario. Who could have sent this? Was it Renauld? The Warden? Or perhaps Kira? She was unpredictable, but Aran doubted she would play this sort of mind game.
As the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together, Aran's instincts told him that this was someone outside of the Black Hand. Someone who had been observing him from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves.
This anonymous player—what did they want? What was their goal? More importantly, why reveal themselves now?
The timing was key. The Black Hand was fracturing, with Renauld and the Warden on the brink of all-out war. Aran had carefully engineered this conflict to destabilize the organization, paving the way for his own plans. But with this unknown figure now in the mix, things had become unpredictable.
He had to remain a step ahead.
Aran folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. His next move was crucial. He couldn't let this message throw him off course. Whoever had sent it was trying to provoke a reaction, to make him act rashly. But Aran wasn't about to fall into their trap.
The first step would be to investigate. Find out who knew enough about his plans to send that message. And for that, he needed eyes and ears in places he couldn't reach himself.
---
Night had fully fallen by the time Aran made his way through the winding streets of the city. He kept to the shadows, moving with the ease of someone who had long since mastered the art of blending in. His destination was a small, unremarkable building in one of the quieter districts—a safehouse he had used in the past when he needed to go off the grid.
Inside, the dim glow of a single candle illuminated the figure waiting for him. A tall, lean man with sharp features and calculating eyes. His name was Lucan, an information broker with a reputation for finding out things most people wanted kept hidden.
"Aran," Lucan greeted him with a nod, his voice low and measured. "I was wondering when you'd come to visit."
"I need information," Aran said, skipping the pleasantries. "Someone's watching me. Someone who knows more than they should."
Lucan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "That's not like you, to let someone get close enough to see what you're doing."
"They didn't get close," Aran replied, his tone sharper than usual. "They've been in the shadows, watching from afar."
Lucan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Do you have any leads? Or am I working with nothing?"
Aran pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to Lucan. "This arrived today. No signature, no trace of who sent it."
Lucan studied the letter for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he set it down on the table between them. "Interesting. I've heard some rumors lately—whispers of a new player in the city. Someone with influence, but no one seems to know who they are."
Aran frowned. "How new?"
"Very," Lucan said, leaning forward slightly. "They've only just started making waves, but whoever they are, they're good. They're staying under the radar, only letting certain people know of their presence."
Aran's mind raced. If there was a new player in the city, that could explain the message. But it also raised more questions. Was this unknown figure simply toying with him, or did they have a more direct interest in the Black Hand?
"And what do they want?" Aran asked, his voice low.
Lucan shrugged. "That's the mystery. No one knows. But if I were you, I'd be careful. If they're watching you, it means they've already decided you're part of their game."
Aran's jaw tightened. "I don't like being someone else's pawn."
Lucan smirked. "No one does. But the best players know when to let others think they're in control."
Aran stood, his mind already calculating his next move. "Find out everything you can about this new player. Names, locations, associates. I want to know who they are and what they want."
Lucan nodded. "Consider it done."
As Aran turned to leave, Lucan called out after him. "Aran, be careful. Whoever sent that message isn't just playing a game. They're testing you."
Aran paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "Then I'll make sure they fail."
---
The next few days were a whirlwind of tension and preparation. Aran kept his usual routine, making sure not to tip off anyone that he was aware of the new threat. He continued to manipulate the Black Hand's factions, nudging them closer to the inevitable clash that would tear the organization apart. But now, he did so with the knowledge that someone was watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake.
Lucan sent word that he was working on gathering information, but so far, nothing concrete had come up. The new player in the city was proving elusive, even for someone as connected as Lucan.
Aran's patience was wearing thin.
Then, one evening, as Aran returned to his hideout, he found another message waiting for him. It was slipped under his door, just like the first. But this time, the note was even shorter:
_"You're not the only one pulling strings."_
Aran stared at the note, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Whoever this was, they weren't just watching—they were actively challenging him. And that was a dangerous game to play.
Because Aran wasn't someone who lost.