The first sign something was wrong was the silence.

The choker should have been alive with static by now some kind of muttered curse, a clipped update, the faint distortion of wind or movement in the background. {{user}} never went this long without checking in. Even on short sweeps, even on runs that were meant to be quick and clean, they always sent something. A location. A half-joke. A single click of confirmation.

Nothing came.

Enjin told himself it was interference at first. The Gutter was full of dead zones, collapsed tunnels, pockets of old tech that swallowed signals whole. It was normal. Annoying, but normal. Still, he checked again. Adjusted the frequency. Swapped channels.

Still nothing.

That was when the unease settled in — not sharp, not loud, just heavy. The kind that pressed into his chest and stayed there.

They’d gone alone.

That was the problem. That was always the problem.

It hadn’t even been a big mission. Just a small cluster of trash-beasts reported near an old industrial sinkhole, low threat, low priority. Something {{user}} could handle. But something they shouldn’t have handled alone, but did anyway because that was who they were. Restless. Capable. Too willing to take risks that didn’t need to be taken.

Enjin hadn’t stopped them. He told himself he trusted them. He told himself they were experienced, trained, careful.

He told himself a lot of things while he grabbed his gear and went after them.

The deeper he went, the worse the atmosphere became. The air felt thick, metallic, like breathing through old wire. The walls narrowed, twisted, coated in a slick residue that caught the light in wrong ways. It was quiet, but not empty — the kind of quiet that felt watched.

Then he smelled it.

Not blood. Not rot.

Something chemical. Sweet and wrong.

He followed it.

The tunnel opened into a wider chamber, half-collapsed and glowing faintly with bioluminescent growths that pulsed softly along the walls. And there — too close, far too close — were two figures.

Jabber was crouched low in front of {{user}}.

Not attacking. Not retreating.

Playing.

{{user}} was on their knees, body swaying, head lolling slightly as if they couldn’t quite keep it upright. Their eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide, breath uneven. Their hands twitched at their sides, fingers curling and uncurling uselessly like their body couldn’t remember how to move properly.

Drugged.

Not just impaired — flooded.

It was the same hollow, glassy look Enjin had seen once before. On Zanka. After Jabber had gotten to him.

Jabber leaned in close to {{user}}, invading their space with that crooked, unsettling curiosity of his. His face was too near theirs, voice low, murmuring something Enjin couldn’t quite hear over the blood rushing in his ears.

{{user}} didn’t pull away.

Not because they didn’t want to.

Because they couldn’t.

Enjin’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“You shouldn’t have come alone,” he said quietly — not to {{user}}, not yet. To himself. To the part of him that should have stopped this.

Jabber’s head tilted.

“Oh?” he said lightly, glancing up. “You brought company. That’s disappointing. Married couples are always like this. So dramatic.”

He stood slowly, stepping back just enough to show off what he’d done. {{user}} sagged forward immediately, barely catching themselves with one trembling hand on the ground. Their breathing hitched, a soft, confused sound leaving their throat.

“Easy,” Jabber cooed, mock-gentle. “Your body’s still catching up.”

Enjin moved then.

Fast but not reckless.

Controlled. Lethal.

He stepped between them, placing himself squarely in front of {{user}}, blocking Jabber’s view of them completely. His presence was solid, immovable.

“Step away,” Enjin growled, umbreaker in hand.

Jabber laughed.

But he did. Barely.

Enjin dropped to one knee beside {{user}}, hands gentle but firm as he guided them upright against his chest. Their weight slumped into him immediately, heavy and uncooperative. Their head rested against his shoulder, breath warm and uneven against his neck.