It's both confusing and yet makes perfect sense, no question in Benji reaching to accept the help and climbing her way onto the neighouring building, although now she keeps a hand on this trio of people just for a moment as she dares a look back. Towards where it is setting a boot against the rooftop ledge, a second from launching himself in pursuit.

Panic. Her other hand reaches and grips the handle of the door, the one that's just there, that slots seamlessly into reality just as the rebar and the concrete and the dusty sheets of plastic do. It's in vivid detail, as well, slats of wood painted white to match the walls that aren't there, brass fixtures, but plain because cupboard doors aren't elaborate, and she plunges into the darkness as swift as a rabbit disappearing into its warren, Wolfgang dragged along not only thanks to the hand at his-their wrist, but also a sort of unstoppable, invisible current that directs him in her wake.

She's hidden here before.

It's pretty dark, save for soft light coming in beneath the door that gets slammed closed to seal off one reality from the other. Small, not quite space adequate enough to be called a room, but fits people comfortably, with an angled ceiling that speaks of the staircase it's slotted in beneath. The smell of ash is gone; just dust, timber, the distant scent of a river.

Benji presses her back against the door, letting out a measured exhale, a hand briefly pressing to her chest as if she could will her blood pressure to a normal pace. And she looks around. Oh.

"Oh," is echoed, out loud.