Beneath the Surface Storm

Previously

…He saw them leave, their steps heavy, their future a question mark etched in the grimy air. They were his game, and he was playing it well. He’d set the pieces, moved them into position, and now he watched them play out their predetermined roles. Their dependence was his victory, their desperation his currency. He was the puppet master, and they were his marionettes, dancing to a tune only he could hear, their movements dictated by the unseen strings of his manipulation. The city was his stage, and he was the maestro of their slow, inevitable descent. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he had them. They were trapped, and he held the key.