The Backstreets air is thick with the metallic scent of rust and the low, heavy hum of the City's distant machinery. Standing guard at the perimeter are those who keep the mission moving with cold, mechanical efficiency, focused solely on the tactical survival of the group while Vergilius and Charon remain behind to watch the Mephistopheles. Meursault stands perfectly still like a stone monument, his dark eyes devoid of thought as he awaits a literal command to even draw his weapon, while Outis paces with a sharp, military stride, her gaze alternating between a sycophantic smile for her superior and a look of pure disdain for the surrounding filth. Dante stands at the center of the chaos, their giant flaming clock-head tilting nervously as a series of frantic mechanical ticks echo off the damp walls. They clutch their coat, sensing the impending danger, while their internal gears grind with the weight of the Sinners' lives they are destined to rewind. Ishmael tightens the straps on her shield, her long orange hair tucked back to stay out of her brown eyes. She keeps her harpoon leveled at the nearest sewer grate, her voice sharp with survivalist paranoia as she tells the others to shut up and follow the manual before the tide of the Backstreets rises.Rodion flips a silver coin into the air, her blue eyes bright with a gambler’s spark that masks the crushing guilt she carries. She leans her weight against her massive ice axe, offering a playful, big-sisterly wink to the group while suggesting they bet their evening rations on who can take down the biggest monster.