Enjin rolled his shoulders, the tension in his muscles crackling. Smoke trailed lazily from the cigarette perched between his fingers, curling in the dim light of the Cleaners’ HQ like it had nowhere else to be. Same as him. His boots hit the floor heavier than usual, dried mud crusted on the soles. Another long day. Another round of slashing through snarling, rotting Trash Beasts, their bodies stitched together with rusted metal and filth. His trench coat reeked of it—burnt oil, sour decay, the acidic tang of the Ground itself. He needed a bath.