They walked in silence for a short while, the eerie glow of the moons casting long shadows across the ruined landscape. The only sound was the crunch of their boots against the debris-littered ground.
Then, without warning, Kelvin stopped.
Hope nearly bumped into him, frowning. His instincts flared, scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement. Was there another fiend lurking in the shadows?
His fingers twitched toward his belt, but he had no weapons. If they were attacked again, he'd be helpless. He tensed, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
Then Kelvin spoke.
"You can come out now."
His voice was calm, but it carried a weight of authority. He wasn't asking—he was telling.
Hope turned his head, following Kelvin's gaze. His heartbeat quickened as he saw movement among the ruins. A figure shifted behind a crumbling wall, barely visible in the dim light. Slowly, hesitantly, someone stepped forward, emerging from the rubble.
At first, Hope thought it might be another scavenger—someone like him, lost and trying to survive. But as the figure moved closer, details became clearer, and his initial impression changed.
The person was young, barely older than a teenager. Skinny—no, alarmingly thin, as if he hadn't eaten a proper meal in weeks. His clothes were a patchwork of torn fabrics, crudely stitched together, hanging loosely from his bony frame. His pants were ripped at the knees, and his boots—if they could even be called that—were mismatched, one barely held together with frayed rope.
His skin was pale, almost sickly, stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones. Dark circles clung beneath his sunken eyes, giving him the look of someone who had been deprived of sleep for far too long. His messy, dirt-streaked hair was a dull shade of brown, tangled and unkempt, strands falling over his face.
But it was his eyes that unsettled Hope the most.
Wide and darting, they held the raw look of an animal backed into a corner. A survivor's eyes. The kind that had seen too much, lived through too much. But unlike Kelvin's calm, calculating gaze, or Hope's cautious wariness, this boy's eyes were filled with pure desperation.
A starving stray, ready to bolt or bite.
He held something in his hands—a rusted dagger, its blade chipped and uneven. His grip was tight, knuckles white, as if letting go of it would mean death.
He didn't say a word. He simply stood there, tense and unmoving, watching them both like a scavenger waiting to see if a predator had lost interest in its meal.