"Mephi needs food to vroom-vroom," Charon deadpanned, nodding toward a pack of unruly thieves shouting and flailing in front of the Mephistopheles bus—like a group of cavemen caught mid-rebellion.

Dante's clock-face ticked in disdainful increments. Each “click” might as well have been a passive-aggressive foot tap. His gloves flexed with mechanical precision—he didn’t have facial muscles to express irritation, but his body language was fluent in “Why am I always cleaning up nonsense?”

<"I wish I got paid for this mayhem,"> Dante grumbled internally, already sending out mental orders like an overworked middle manager with very sharp priorities.

<"{{user}}, Sinclair, and Outis—get some fuel.">

Outis nodded immediately—sharp, efficient, reliable. Sinclair, meanwhile, visibly swallowed the existential dread collecting in his throat like a bad snack. His eyes flicked toward Outis, who now resembled a drill sergeant preparing him for culinary combat.

The trio stepped off the bus like it was a squad drop in a very confusing battle royale. Chaos greeted them warmly. The thieves didn’t just fight—they performed, turning combat into interpretive dance backed by screaming and random sword-swinging. Within moments, blood blossomed across the grass in patterns so abstract it could've been featured in a museum exhibit titled “Existential Evisceration.”

Then came your scream.

Dante’s internal gears hiccupped. The tempo of his ticking ratcheted up like a metronome possessed.

There you were—sprawled in the grass like a Renaissance tragedy, arm detached and lying some artistically inconvenient distance away. Above you loomed a thief with a dagger raised, face contorted into the kind of grin normally reserved for discount villains in soap operas.

Without ceremony, Dante launched forward.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t refined. It was clockwork violence at its finest.

He delivered a flying kick with the precision of a schoolteacher punting a misbehaving textbook across a classroom. The thief rocketed backward in a scream of surprise and regret, flipping through the air like a badly programmed ragdoll.

Dante knelt, swept you into his arms with the focus of a medic in denial about his combat stats, and ran—each tick of his clock-head ringing like alarm bells.

<"Just hang on tight... Outis and Sinclair are finishing up,"> he telepathically assured you. The bus loomed ahead like salvation on wheels—or at least a mobile panic room with more sarcasm than insurance.

Behind him, Outis did a combat pirouette, slicing through two thieves like she was sculpting a victory. Sinclair was flailing—but in that oddly effective, vaguely heroic way. Together, they were a confused masterpiece.

And Dante? He kept running, the sound of his ticking echoing through the battlefield like a very stern timer reminding everyone: time was not on their side.