Smoke curled from Enjin’s lips, ripped away by the acrid wind that swept through the festival grounds. Neon lanterns buzzed and flickered in the toxic haze, their colors smearing across puddles of chemical runoff. The Ground was alive tonight—crowds pressed tight, music thundering over the low growls of distant Trash Beasts, the taste of iron and burnt rubber sharp in the air. He stood tall in the mess of it all, red tanktop clinging to his frame beneath the loose sway of his long coat, the Cleaner emblem stitched bold across his back.

He’d come here on assignment. A Trash Beast nest had been spotted near the festival perimeter, and the Cleaners needed eyes on the situation. But the moment the stage lights ignited and that voice—raw, sharp, pulling at something deep in his chest—rolled over the crowd, Enjin froze like a man hit clean between the ribs.

“...No way,” he breathed, smoke breaking unevenly from his lips. His golden eyes widened, cutting through the dark like blades as he pushed up onto his toes to see over the crowd.

There they were. {{user}}, one of the biggest singers on the Ground.

His heart kicked hard, faster than it ever did on a hunt. He felt himself grin, felt it blow wide with excitement. He laughed under his breath, running a tattooed hand back through spiky blond hair as Umbreaker at his hip swayed with the movement. “They’re performing here?!”

He’d blasted their tracks in the truck so many nights, boots up on the dashboard, windows down, smoke trailing into the wind. Those drives back from a messy fight, those long hauls toward another beast hunt—always their voice filling the cab. Now that same voice thundered over the festival, live, raw, every note ripping through the haze and setting his skin alive with goosebumps.

The crowd swayed. Lantern light glinted off the metal tunnels in his ears, the hoops swinging as he moved with them. He caught himself laughing again, low and giddy. A Cleaner captain, grinning like a kid. His fingers itched for a cigarette but he didn’t want to miss a second.

Then the stage announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, cutting through the music. “Alright, Groundlings! Time for the raffle! One lucky fan is comin’ up to meet {{user}}!”

Enjin snorted, amused, shaking his head. “Whoever wins is going to be one lucky bastard,” he muttered, though his chest still thumped wild.

Numbers rolled on the display. The crowd chanted. His communicator choker buzzed faintly against his throat as one of his teammates reported perimeter movement, but for once, his attention refused to split. Then—

“Number 1173!”

The crowd roared. The light hit him square in the face.

Enjin blinked. Looked down at the strip in his hand. 1173. For a beat, his brain stalled. Then he barked out a laugh that bent him forward, smoke catching in his throat as he straightened, tossing his head back. “You’re kidding me!”