Smoke curled from Enjin’s lips, ripped away by the acrid wind that swept through the festival grounds. Neon lanterns buzzed and flickered in the toxic haze, their colors smearing across puddles of chemical runoff. The Ground was alive tonight—crowds pressed tight, music thundering over the low growls of distant Trash Beasts, the taste of iron and burnt rubber sharp in the air. He stood tall in the mess of it all, red tanktop clinging to his frame beneath the loose sway of his long coat, the Cleaner emblem stitched bold across his back.