He remembers the morning he left. She had long since gotten out of bed, the afterglow of her warmth lingering in the covers strewn about. They faintly smelled of sex. She insisted to burn him into her memory, how could he resist? They didn't know how long it would be before he returned.

From the kitchen came an almost acidic bitter smell- perhaps she had burned the bacon again. It was something akin to rusting metal, a copper smell. It makes his stomach churn almost painfully, it couldn't be burnt bacon.

He doesn't remember getting up, but he's in the kitchen now, her back is facing him as she cooks something on the stove. He can't quite see the contents in the pan passed her form. He's losing his appetite, unsure if it's the scent or his planned 11 hour flight to Harran. His packed bags take up floor space and his paperwork is on the kitchen table.

They had a heated discussion about his job opportunity a week prior among the bills piled on the couch. Her legs were bouncing, hands on her lap- she turned the promise ring on her middle finger over and over again. He can't remember the conversation, but perhaps he had tried to show her the benefit of his leave. They would finally have enough money to pay for their flat, pay off her student loans…

And maybe get her a permanent ring, but he kept that thought to himself. He felt that it was the right thing to do, after all, they had been together for so long. But.. where will he draw the line between what was right and his obligations? Rather than dwell on this thought, he lets the smooth skin of her inner thigh under his fingertips distract him.

He promised to keep in touch.

He never did.

There's pressure behind his eyes, a signal that the dream memory before him is now coming to a close. He swears he can still feel the warmth of her thighs around his hips. Or maybe it's the heat from his fever trapped under the riot gear practically glued to his skin with blood and sweat.

That must have been the source of the smell- the blood soaked chains restraining his body that have now crusted to a dark brown. How 15 men managed to restrain him in such a way let alone drag him to his current destination was beyond him.

Said destination may be a warehouse, but it was hard to tell beyond the blood in his eyes. Besides the shards of glass in his skin and a broken nose, he's surprised the men didn't smash his head open during their window of opportunity. He can't smell the blood or the metal anymore, good for his stomach but bad for his senses. No sense of smell makes him practically blind.

From somewhere in the room came a sudden kicking sound, a hard rubber boot on metal. Each kick grows in force until something caves in and falls to the concrete floor. The crash forces him to jolt, chains digging into festering wounds. To any passerby, he must have sounded like some kind of wounded animal- he might as well have been one.

There's a long stretch of silence then, the only sound being the cloudy huffs of breath leaving his mouth. He supposes he hadn't noticed it before, but beyond the adjacent brick wall is another room, and from that room is an orange crate. Perhaps it's the one from the arena, the very one whose lid is now opening ever so quietly. It couldn't have been the men, there was no reason for them to sneak around him given his current predicament- perhaps this person wasn't supposed to be here. They're stealing. With his blurry eyesight, he can only see the figure rummage through the contents then close the lid softly. With the broken nose, he can't smell them.

He knows they are not one of the dead ones, but he wasn't prepared for the absence of anger. No boiling blood, no hazy thoughts, no clouded vision even as the survivor approached in what could only be morbid curiosity. It's a shared feeling. They inched toward his feet, their facial features slowly solidifying. His heart nearly jumps into his throat.

At a distance, the resemblance is nearly uncanny, but it wasn't her. How could he have ever thought so? His heart settles at this thought. They do share some similarities, but there are plenty of difference between them. This one, her hair is a bit longer, jaw much sharper. Her skin is darker and dirtier after surviving under the harsh sun. And maybe, just maybe, this one is a little shorter. They are staring at each other.

The morbid curiosity is clear on her face, infected don't stare at a potential meal- he can practically see her turning this over and over in her head.

From beyond the doorway comes the metallic screech of a door opening and the sound of men's voices. Fear is present in her eyes but she is quick to scale the adjacent wall. He can't crane his neck, but he hears her feet settle on a metal platform somewhere above his head.

From the other room, boxes scrape across the floor, the men chatter casually, and multiple car engines are running. A rumble vibrates from his chest as two figures make themselves visible in the doorway.

"Is this one ready?" one of them say as he strides over to him.

"Yeah, he's ready to be moved tomorrow" the other responds.

By now, they're both by his feet. He resisted the urge to lunge at them, as the blood in his wounds had already begun to dry.

"Shouldn't we put something in his mouth so he doesn't bite while we get him into the truck?"

"If you really want to stick your fingers in its mouth, go ahead. Rais won't give a shit if you come back with less fingers. As long as we get this.. Thing.. To the pit, he'll stay off our asses".

The pit? What the hell was the pit? And who the hell was Rais?

The men simply checked the tightness of the chains and finished their inspection, weakened rumbles leaving his chest all the while. As they were leaving, one of them kicked his boot roughly, sending a ripple up his leg that made him snarl and his muscles tense.

The men chuckled as they slipped out the door, mentioning something about "anger" and "good use." With that, the car doors shut and the warhouse door screeched to a close. It was quiet once again, but not for long. He almost forgot she was up there till her feet started padding across the platform and into the next room. It was probably best that she leave while she still had the chance before those thugs came back. Especially once they realize that the crate they took was empty.

There's some rummaging coming from the room, boxes being pushed around and maybe a toolbox being opened. Could she not get out? Was she locked in? That didn't seem right, however. She came through the vents.

He could see her figure in the doorway again, inching toward his feet with something in her hands. A large bolt cutter. He knows exactly what she's going to do, he bares his teeth. She takes an audible breath and makes slow work of the chains. There are segments and chunks remaining in his flesh, but his limbs are slowly being freed.

He must have sounded like a dying moose then and each ripple of nerve-destroyed flesh was like shaking water from thick hide. She winces after every jolt, putting more distance between her body and his as she works her way up. There's one more chain- a thick neck cuff that is leaving welts in his skin. He struggles to get up but she scrambles away from him nonetheless.

He struggles to take a whiff through his damaged nose. Still nothing, but the infection is fighting with his brain. They're staring at each other again. It would be so easy to charge at her and crush her into the wall with his arm. He's trembling in place, fresh blood dripping and old blood crumbling off like dust from a caving ceiling. She's looking around the room now and knows her next move. She inches around him, hands at the ready to defend herself.

At the corner of the room is some kind of control box with an orange bulb at the top. All without breaking eye contact, she opens the box and hits a button. The sudden stream of light from the warehouse door opening nearly burns his eyes. She's taking that opportunity to run passed him, making sure she's close enough to catch his attention. Using the same bolt cutter she used on him, she runs to the locked gate surrounding the warehouse and makes quick work of the chains.

She whistles softly at him.

"Come come!"

He's not some damn dog.

His legs wobble as he follows her lead, a pound of blood crust shedding from his body and the chain trailing behind him with the fresh blood. She stays in his range of sight from the rooftops of the slums and quickly pulls a radio from her pocket.

"Tower, you're not going to fucking believe this".