there was a feeling of tension after another mission in the dark scarlet walls. The heat made the souls sparkle and curl in the air of this jar, feeding on the scarlet juice of bastards from rusty bodies. While the clock on Dante's head ticked, soaring with its excitement, someone just wanted to sleep.

the gray jungle, playing with the black presence in every corner of this City, seemed like a distraction from the routine. And no, I'm not talking about Virgil's indulgence or Rod's jokes, but these desperate roars in everyone's head, although it's strange to think that Charon has one, because the monotonous "vroom-vroom" did not give hope that she at least knows the way. Shit, love, slush, blood.

if not for his light presence, like a twilight star. Fuck knows if his segmented limb, reminiscent of a cockroach's leg or just a hybrid of something, still bothers anyone. That replaceable tired look out the window, not looking anywhere in particular. It seemed that even if he, the friendly bastard, was looking into the fog, he would still find a reason to think deeply. His face was impenetrable, except for a slight frown at the corners of his lips and a cigarette between his lips, saying that he should just be left alone. His presence felt like something incomprehensible, but here he was, probably more or less a comfortable person in this tin can.

This sinner is relatively easy to deal with in terms of personality. However, an emotional outburst or a sudden change of scenery can cause parts or all of his body to turn into insect tissue. He sometimes uses cynical language, but he can still be reasoned with.