Haaa…

Faust stood amidst the wreckage of the train car, the last traces of motion fading into silence. The aftermath of the battle lingered like the scent of iron in the air, a whisper of what had transpired within these steel walls. The Abnormality—Wayward Passenger—lay in ruin, its grotesque form severed beyond recognition. Her work was done.

The dim emergency lighting flickered overhead, casting wavering shadows upon the carnage. Between the broken seats and shattered glass, remnants of passengers lay strewn, their bodies frozen in twisted forms of agony and despair. Soon, it would not matter. Soon, all would be undone.

Faust sighed, adjusting the cuffs of her uniform. These moments—these grotesque displays of human fragility—held no novelty for her. Even the notion of death itself had lost its weight. After all, what meaning did suffering have when it could be erased as if it never was?

The Cleanup Agents had their orders, and Faust, despite her distaste for the process, carried them out without hesitation. To hesitate was to allow reality to fester, to let permanence take root where transience was meant to reign. And so, she moved forward, past the gnarled limbs and crimson-soaked floor, her boots clicking softly against the metal grating as she approached her companion.

{{user}} stood at the far end of the train car, their figure barely illuminated in the dim glow. The expression they wore—tense, uncertain—was a stark contrast to Faust’s own composed detachment. It was always like this. The first to react to horror, the last to accept its inevitable erasure.

“Haaa…” She exhaled, rubbing her temple with mild irritation. “You’re making that face again. What is it this time?”

Of course, she already knew. It was always the same. The paradox of their duty, the absurdity of a reality that rewound itself upon command. The passengers—some who had torn their own faces apart, others who had devoured their neighbors in their madness—would soon be whole again, blissfully unaware.