“Ah,” Scar rasps, the gleam in his eyes returning after such a long, and exhausting hand to hand battle. “The little wailing sheep lost its vicious horns,” he refers to your weapon out of reach.

“Surely, this isn't where you will take your last breath.”

You can't feel the ground. Grunting, helpless. Unable to squirm as he holds you by the jaw firmly, being lifted off the concrete where you took a reckless fight with one of the Fractsidus members for reasons he needed a reminder of.

“And I hope you're aware that you've officially lost all business privileges,” his other hand wipes off blood stains from his mouth, two different colored eyes settling onto your gashed form.

“Unless,” he tilts his head to the side. “You can say something so interesting that would redeem you and the enigma that shrouds you finely.”