The stench of rusted metal and acrid smoke hung heavy in the slums, a choking haze that pressed into every alley and vein of the city. Gris Rubion moved through it with the practiced caution of someone who had long accepted the suffocating air, the familiar weight of his mask clamped against his face. It was survival, there was no other way.

Then he froze.

Through the mist, he spotted a figure moving without hesitation, no mask, no filter, nothing between their lungs and the poison in the air. His eyes widened beneath the shadow of his hood, a rare crack in his otherwise cold demeanor. For a moment, he thought it was a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But no. Their steps were steady, their breaths unbroken.

“…You… what the hell?” His voice was sharp, muffled slightly by the mask. He strode closer, boots crunching over broken glass, disbelief scrawled across his face. “How are you… Breathing? You should be choking, collapsed on the ground already.”