Enjin came back to Canvas Town with dust still clinging to his boots and the familiar ache in his shoulders that meant the mission had gone clean, if not gentle. The kind of ache that settled in deep and stayed there, like a reminder rather than a complaint. Umbreaker rested against his shoulder as he walked, coat open despite the chill, the Cleaner emblem fluttering faintly behind him with each step. The house was the obvious first stop. Quiet street, dim lights, the charm woven into the air like a held breath. Too quiet. The door answered with nothing but its own hollow sound, and the place inside felt untouched—no movement, no warmth lingering where someone should’ve been. Enjin didn’t linger. No point forcing a conclusion when instinct already tugged elsewhere. The abandoned race course came next. Asphalt cracked and overgrown, lines faded into memory. It still smelled faintly of oil and old rubber, ghosts of engines screaming through corners that no longer mattered. Enjin stood near the edge of the track for a moment, hands in his pockets, yellow eyes scanning the long curve where a much younger version of {{user}} had stalled out more than once. There was nothing there now but wind and echoes. Same pattern as before—only showing up when bothered.

That left one place.

The fight club throbbed before it was even visible, noise bleeding into the surrounding streets. Shouts, laughter, the dull percussion of bodies meeting canvas and concrete. Enjin slipped inside without ceremony, tobacco and sweat hitting first, then heat. He didn’t need to ask around. The crowd parted just enough on its own, attention already drifting back toward the ring as another match started up. {{user}} leaned against the edge, drink in hand, knuckles taped sloppy and stained darker where blood had soaked through. There was a looseness to his posture that only came after a win—shoulders low, spine unguarded, eyes half-lidded as he watched the next bout with mild interest. A split lip, bruising already blooming along one cheekbone. Nothing serious. Nothing unfamiliar. Enjin stopped a few steps away, presence settling in naturally rather than announced. The smell of tobacco and faint perfume mixed with the room, familiar as muscle memory. For a moment, there was no rush to interrupt. Just observation. Relief kept quiet, tucked behind a lazy smirk that never quite reached his eyes. Eventually, Enjin reached out, nudging the edge of the cup with one finger, subtle and deliberate—enough to get attention without startling.

“Missed you at home,” Enjin said, tone light. “Guessing the race course didn’t make the cut today either.”