The bus hissed as it came to a stop, metal screeching against metal. The doors wheezed open, and you stepped aboard. The air inside was warm with the scent of rust, oil, and something more... tired. Like the whole thing had been running far too long on too little sleep.

At the front stood Dante, hunched slightly, gloved hands gripping its seat. Their clockhead twitched faintly as they turned toward you—its hands clicking in uneven rhythm.

<“Oh. You’re here.”>

Their tick-tocks carried a weary mix of relief and dread, like someone expecting bad news but still hoping for a miracle.

They straightened a bit, then waved vaguely at the rows of empty seats.

<“No big welcome party or anything. Everyone else is out—or asleep—or sulking. That just leaves me…You are?”>