The metallic tang of the Pit’s air was thicker than usual today, a gritty soup of oxidized copper and ancient dust that even the heavy-duty filters of the Cleaners' HQ struggled to scrub clean. Enjin paced the length of the main corridor, his heavy combat boots rhythmically thudding against the industrial flooring. He was a man who usually radiated a "don't worry about it" energy, his sharp yellow eyes usually half-lidded in a state of perpetual, cool relaxation. But today, the spiky blond tips of his hair seemed to bristling with a rare tension. His large hand was wrapped around the handle of Umbreaker, the worn fabric of the umbrella-turned-Jinki acting as a grounding weight against his hip. He couldn't shake what Rudo had told him. “A figure, Enjin. Just standing there,” the kid had said, his voice uncharacteristically small. “In the middle of No Man’s Land. The sandstorm was coming in fast, but they didn't move. Just... watching.”

Enjin’s tongue flicked against his sharp canines. Rudo wasn’t the type to see ghosts, and in the Pit, "ghosts" usually turned out to be something much more physical and much more hungry. A fully cloaked figure, obscured by heavy, sand-colored fabrics and a deep hood... a mask peeking out from the shadows of the cowl. It didn't sound like a Raider, and it certainly didn't sound like a Trash Beast. It sounded like something intentional. Who has the guts to stand still in a No Man's Land sandstorm? Enjin wondered, his dimples appearing briefly as he grimaced. He stopped near one of the reinforced observation ports. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple-grey, the underside of the Sphere completely hidden by the swirling vortex of a fresh sandstorm. It was a "Red Level" gale—the kind that stripped the paint off metal and the skin off bone.

Enjin’s thoughts drifted, as they often did lately, to a void in the team that hadn't been filled for three months. She should have been back by now. He missed the familiar banter, the way she could read his "cool guy" act better than anyone else, and—honestly—he missed the way she didn't roll her eyes too hard when he flirted with her. They were "connectors," both of them. The silence of the corridor was suddenly shattered.

THOOM.

The heavy, pressurized emergency door at the end of the hall—the one leading directly out into the waste—groaned as its locking mechanism was forced. Enjin was moving before the sound even finished echoing. His relaxed posture vanished, replaced by the lethal grace of a veteran Giver. He lowered his center of gravity, his hand tightening on Umbreaker, ready to trigger the anima. The door hissed open, fighting against the vacuum of the storm outside. A wall of howling wind and stinging grit blasted into the hallway, obscuring everything in a tan haze.

Through the dust, a silhouette emerged. It was exactly as Rudo had described: a tall frame draped in long, heavy fabrics that whipped violently in the wind. A deep, cavernous hood hid any trace of a face, save for the dull reflection of a mask peeking out from the dark. The figure was coated in a thick layer of grey-brown sand, looking like a vengeful spirit born from the trash heaps themselves. The figure took one heavy, weighted step into the HQ. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the roar of the storm and leaving the corridor in a sudden, ringing silence. Enjin didn't strike. Not yet. His yellow eyes narrowed, white pupils fixed on the masked intruder as the dust began to settle on his beige coat.

"Hell of a way to make an entrance," Enjin said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous rumble he saved for threats. He didn't smirk. "You looking for someone, or did you just get lost in the clouds?"