I Don't Want To Be A Hero

Chapter 8 Broken City Part 2

Ben sprinted through the ruined streets, a streak of blue lightning weaving between overturned cars and burning debris. Every brute he passed was another life he might save. He jabbed a syringe into the neck of a rampaging man twice his size—hiss, click—and the brute collapsed, muscles twitching as the antidote took hold.

Ben didn't stop.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't think.

Another brute charged him with a metal pipe. Ben blurred behind him, injected the cure, and caught the man before he hit the ground.

"Two dozen down," he muttered into his earpiece. "Heading toward—"

A figure stepped into his path.

Ben skidded to a halt, dust swirling around him.

Lilith.

Barefoot.

Dress torn.

Eyes wild with devotion and madness.

Lucifer's most loyal monster.

She smiled like she'd been waiting for him all night.

"Hello, pretty lightning boy."

Ben tensed. "Lilith. Move."

"Oh, I will," she purred, "but first…"

She lunged—not with strength, but with speed, faster than he expected. Her fingers snatched his earpiece clean off his ear.

Before he could react, she crushed it under her heel.

Crunch.

Ben froze. "What did you just—"

Lilith giggled, twirling a strand of blood‑matted hair. "He said you were coming. My sweet Lucifer. My king. He said you'd try to ruin his fun."

Ben stepped forward. "Where is he?"

She danced back, light on her feet. "You and I both know you already know the answer to that. Isn't that why you let the little bird go all by herself to see him?"

He lunged. She dodged, barely, laughing as she flipped backward over a car hood.

"You're fast," she teased. "But you're not faster than love."

Ben blinked. "What does that even—"

She threw a handful of glass shards at him. He dodged, but the distraction was enough. By the time he looked up, she was already sprinting down an alley, vanishing into the smoke.

"Dammit!" Ben shouted, slamming his fist into the hood of a car.

He looked down at the crushed earpiece.

Siren was alone.

He took off toward the pier.

Lucifer's knife clattered across the dock as Siren slammed him into a shipping container. He staggered, laughing through blood.

"You fight beautifully," he rasped. "Like a storm trying to hold itself together."

Siren didn't answer. She was bruised, bleeding, exhausted—but she stood her ground.

Lucifer wiped his mouth. "This city will burn, Siren. And it won't be the only one."

He snapped his fingers.

Two of his men dragged a small child from behind a crate—a boy no older than seven, terrified, crying silently.

Siren's heart dropped.

One of the men pressed a gun to the boy's head. "I suggest you back off."

Siren froze, before taking a few steps back.

Lucifer grinned. "Good girl."

"Now drop your weapon" he demanded

She slowly lowered her baton.

The boy whimpered.

Lucifer leaned close to the child's ear. "Don't worry. She'll save you. Heroes always do."

He shoved the boy toward the edge of the pier.

The child slipped—arms flailing—falling toward the dark, freezing water.

Siren didn't hesitate.

She dove.

Cold swallowed her instantly. The world became muffled, heavy, dark. She reached the boy, pulling him up, kicking hard toward the surface.

They broke through the water just as Ben arrived on the pier.

"SIREN!" he shouted, sprinting to the edge.

She pushed the boy toward him. Ben grabbed the child, hauling him onto the dock.

Siren reached for the edge—

A boat engine roared to life.

Lucifer stood on the departing cargo ship, waving mockingly.

"Next time, little bird!"

Ben reached out for her. "Dav—Siren, hurry!"

She grabbed his hand, gasping, shivering, soaked.

But Lucifer was already gone.

The ship disappeared into the fog.

Siren collapsed onto the dock, coughing water, trembling with fury and relief.

Ben knelt beside her. "You saved him."

She stared at the fog where Lucifer vanished.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"But I lost him."

Ben squeezed her shoulder. "We'll get him. Together."

Siren closed her eyes, letting the weight of the moment settle.

Tonight, she chose mercy.

And Lucifer chose escape.

The next day, York City moved with a strange, uneasy slowness. Streets that were usually packed with honking taxis and impatient pedestrians now felt hollow, as if the whole city was holding its breath. Emergency tents lined the sidewalks outside hospitals, and the air carried the sharp scent of disinfectant mixed with the metallic tang of burnt concrete from the previous chaos.

Volunteers and medics worked nonstop, distributing the "cure" to anyone who had taken the drug. Most people were lucky. The compound in the syringe seemed to target the parasites more aggressively than the host. Victims would shake, sweat through their clothes, and then—inevitably—vomit until their bodies were empty and trembling. But afterward, their eyes cleared. Their breathing steadied. They came back.

But not everyone made it in time.

Around forty people died—some from the parasites tearing through their systems, some from the drug that had given them monstrous strength, and some from the cure meant to save them. No one could say which was the true killer. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe it didn't matter anymore.

Another thirty‑six were killed by those who had taken the drug and lost control. Two hundred forty‑seven were injured, and that number kept climbing as more people staggered into clinics with delayed symptoms, bruises, fractures, or the lingering tremors of withdrawal.

York City felt bruised. Haunted. Like a place trying to remember how to breathe.

At the airport on the east side of the city, the world felt strangely normal—bright lights, polished floors, the distant rumble of departing flights. Davina stood near the tall windows, watching her plane being refueled on the tarmac. Ben stood beside her, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

"Are you sure you have to go?" he asked, voice low, almost hopeful.

Davina sighed softly. "I have a lot to do back in Welson. Especially with RenTech. They're expecting me." Her gaze drifted to the skyline—York City's jagged silhouette still marred by smoke trails and half‑collapsed rooftops.

Ben nodded, though the motion was reluctant. "I get it. Just… make sure you visit again soon. And thanks for your help." He extended his hand.

She took it, firm and warm. "No problem. You're sure you and your team can handle making more of the cure? Distributing it? Getting it to Hero and Songbird?"

"We'll handle it," he said, and for the first time since she met him, he almost sounded like he believed it.

A stewardess stepped out from the gate. "Miss Wayne? The plane is ready for boarding."

Davina straightened. "Well, that's my cue." She turned back to Ben. "If you need me, don't hesitate to call."

"The same goes for you," he replied. Then, softer: "You're alone in that big city. It wouldn't hurt to find a few people you can trust."

She gave a small, wry smile. "I'll definitely consider it."

With that, she turned toward the jet bridge. The engines rumbled, the air smelled faintly of fuel, and York City—scarred, stubborn, and still standing—seemed to watch her go.

"See you around," she called over her shoulder.

Ben watched until she disappeared inside the plane, then let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

TO BE CONTINUED