The rooftop trap snapped shut faster than Ben could process.By the time the scarred man's soldiers reached them, Lena's blade was already on the ground, and Ben found himself shoved to his knees with a boot pressing into his back.
"Don't resist," Lena whispered, her voice steady, though her eyes flickered with calculation.
Ben's fists trembled. The fire stirred in his chest again—urging him to break free, to crush the hands gripping his arms. One thought pulsed, raw and primal: tear them apart.
But Lena's words anchored him. He forced himself still.
The scarred man descended from the opposite rooftop, crossing the plank bridge his men had thrown between buildings. Up close, the scar running across his face was even more grotesque, a pale reminder of the world's cruelty. His eyes, sharp and cold, studied them like predators sized up prey.
"Well now," he said, crouching before Ben. "You don't look like much. But I've survived long enough to know better than to judge by appearances." His gaze shifted to Lena. "And you… you carry yourself like a soldier."
He leaned closer to Ben, sniffing almost mockingly. "But it's you I'm interested in. You smell… different."
Ben stiffened. "Get away from me."
The man chuckled, standing. "Feisty. I like that." He gestured with two fingers. "Bind them. Bring them to camp."
Rough rope bit into Ben's wrists. The soldiers hauled him to his feet, shoving him toward the stairwell. Lena walked silently beside him, her eyes forward, but when their shoulders brushed, he felt the faintest pressure of her arm against his—reassurance.
As they were marched through the ruins, Ben whispered, low enough for only her to hear. "Why aren't we fighting back?"
"Because sometimes surviving," Lena murmured, "means letting the enemy think they've won. For now."
The scarred man overheard nothing. He walked ahead, whistling a low, tuneless melody, leading them deeper into the ruins.
Toward whatever waited in his camp.