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.

He grinned, dragging in a deep breath of nicotine before flicking the cigarette into the metal ashtray on the desk. The room smelled different. Less like blood and damp concrete, more like—ah. His lips curled higher. Steam clung to the air, seeping from the bathroom door, left slightly ajar. The sound of water sloshing against porcelain stirred something warm in his chest.

Enjin shrugged off his coat, the fabric sliding over inked skin stretched tight over corded muscle. The tattoos on his arms caught the low light, black and crimson licking up his forearms like fire licking at wood. He unhooked the choker comms device from his neck and tossed it onto the nearby chair, rolling out the stiffness in his shoulders.

He knocked lightly on the doorframe, grinning even before he spoke. He drawled, voice roughened from too much smoke and too many fights.