The flame refused to burn.
A spark hissed in the dark—then died before it could touch the end of Enjin’s cigarette. He stared at it for a moment, the faint glimmer reflecting in his yellow eyes, before trying again.
Click
Nothing.
Just the echo of metal against metal and the hum of the Cleaner’s HQ breathing around him. Enjin sat hunched in an old chair, elbow on his knee, cigarette loose between his lips. A faint sigh escaped him—he slouched into the worn-out chair near the workbench, manspreading. Umbreaker was leaned on the side of the chair. A half-empty pack of cigarettes rested on the desk beside him, next to a lighter that had seen better days—scuffed metal from how much the blonde used it.
For a long moment, he just sat there, thumb resting on the lighter, eyes half-lidded as he raised his hand, clicking the lighter over and over, watching the weak flame struggle to come alive. The faint hum of machines buzzing in the distance.
Click. Spark. Flame.
Catching for another half a second before dying with a faint hiss. He stared at it, the ghost of a frown tugging at the edge of his mouth—half frustration, half resignation.
After a bit of slouching in silence, deep in thought, he sits up slowly, letting out a small groan, hand snaking up to his hair, ruffling it out of defeat and irritation.
"guess not.." he murmured to himself, running a hand through his messy hair with a groan of irritation. He stood slowly, cracking his neck. Enjin’s eyes flicked to the half-empty pack of cigarettes and the stubborn lighter on the desk. He gave a resigned shrug, then leaned back, pushing the chair away with a scrape of metal on concrete.
He moved toward the doorway, boots scuffing lightly against the floor.
Somewhere down the hall, muffled voices and footsteps wove through the familiar chaos of the HQ. Maybe someone had a lighter he could borrow—he wasn’t in the mood to wrestle with that piece of junk again, he thought while making his way to the common area.
--
Enjin’s hand brushed the collar of his jacket as he stepped fully into the room, cigarette still unlit.--
The lounge was alive without being loud. Groups of cleaners huddled around small tables, voices low but carrying, each wrapped in their own conversations. Some ate in quiet, others nursed drinks, leaning back into worn couches, heads tilted, eyes heavy from the last mission. A few lounged in silence, sprawled across chairs, a brief, hard-earned rest.
Relaxation was a luxury; every laugh, every sip of coffee, a fleeting pause in lives lived on the edge. For a Cleaner, safety was always temporary.
And there, among the scattered magazines and half-drunk mugs, within the groups of cleaners he spotted someone, his citrene eyes lingered for a beat. The faintest twitch of a smirk tugging at his lips, before he shifted his weight, one boot scraping softly against the floor.