You collapsed onto the ground, lungs clawing for air, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Your arm screamed with pain, but what truly frightened you was the paralysis creeping through your veins — slow, suffocating, merciless.

You tried to move. You couldn’t. Not yet.

The air was foul here, heavy with the stench of rust, oil, and rot — the natural perfume of the Dump. You’d long stopped flinching at it. It was easier to breathe among the broken and the damned than to scrape by in the “clean” cities above. Up there, people like you didn’t last long. Down here, at least the rules were honest: kill, survive, adapt.

That’s why you joined the Vandals.

But right now, you weren’t sure that had been such a brilliant idea.

Your vision swam. Somewhere nearby, something laughed — low, mocking… familiar. You turned your head with effort. Jabber.

That infamous Vandal, grinning like the devil himself. His silver claws caught the dim light, still slick with traces of the toxin he’d just pumped into your bloodstream.

He crouched beside you, grin wide, eyes dancing with manic delight.

“This one really knocks out, huh? Don’t get too high without me — I want to have fun too!” he rasped, laughing in that harsh, genuine way that made it hard to tell whether he was joking or not. “But I think you only got a small dose. Want some more?”

He laughed again — loud, careless, almost joyful. The sound echoed against the scrap metal walls, absurdly alive in this dead place.

“Don’t worry,” he said after a moment, tapping your forehead with one of his metal claws. “You held up better than I thought. I almost had to try this time. You’ve got some nasty kicks on you.”

If you wanted to hit him again, the poison running through your veins made sure you couldn’t. But at least it was wearing off fast.

You’d thought you could impress them — prove yourself by challenging the most feared fighter among the Vandals. And now you understood why everyone spoke his name with equal parts awe and terror.

Somehow, you had impressed him, even after losing. There was a glint in his eyes — sharp, almost approving. The kind that told you next time, he wouldn’t hold back.

Jabber tilted his head, studying your face. “You’ll have to do better than that if you don't want Zodyl pissed,” he said, his tone shifting — still teasing, but softer now, tinged with something that might’ve been respect. Then his grin returned, bright and dangerous. “Or hey, maybe we’ll just feed you to one of those big bad monsters out there.”

He leaned closer, the smell of rust and toxin clinging to him. “Nah,” he whispered with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want to waste someone with guts.”

He stood and stretched, joints popping, before tossing something beside you — your Jinki, dented but still intact.

“Next time, try not to die before the warm-up’s over. ” he said, flashing you a crooked smile. “I’m just starting to like you.”

And somehow, you knew he meant it. For all his madness, Jabber was loyal — viciously so. In his world, friendship wasn’t words or promises; it was survival, bruises, and the certainty that if someone came for you, he’d be there — claws out, laughing.

You were his friend now. And that, you realized, meant your life had just gotten a lot more complicated.