The fall is the first thing that breaks you. Not just the plummet, though every bone in your body swears you should be pulp on impact but the silence after. The kind of silence that rings in your ears, like the Sphere itself is glad to be rid of you. When you wake, it’s the smell that gets you. Acrid, choking. Like fire and rot and bile woven into the air. The ground beneath you isn’t earth but shifting, crunching layers of garbage stacked endlessly into hills. A graveyard for everything the Sphere didn’t want—including you.

You don’t have long to think. The trash moves. No, it rises. Metal groans, plastic cracks, and something stitched together out of the pit’s rejects lumbers toward you. A beast. Wrong-shaped, with wires for veins and broken glass for teeth. You fight. Reflex more than plan. Your vital instrument hums in your hands, answering your panic with sharp precision. Every swing cuts deeper into the beast until it topples, collapsing into useless junk again. But another comes, then another. You’re panting, arms shaking, the stink of burning rubber filling your lungs when your grip falters.

That’s when they appear.

“Wow… look at this, Rudo.” A girl’s voice, sharp, amused. You turn, and there she is—short, messy red hair catching the dim light. She leans on her scissors like they’re just another accessory. “Most folk die on impact. And if not? Beasts take ’em. Guess you’re luckier than you look.”

Beside her, a boy with grey hair and tired eyes hauls you upright with surprising strength. He doesn’t say much, but you catch the name she throws: Rudo. “It stinks,” another voice complains, this one elegant, nasal. You spot him a second later, tall and carefully put together, carrying what looks like a staff but feels heavier in meaning. He wrinkles his nose under a mask. “I can feel the funk through my mask. Disgusting.”

Before you can choke out a question, something presses against your face. A mask. “Here,” a man says, voice low and smooth. “You’ll need this if you plan on lasting longer than a day.”

You look up. He’s taller than the rest, an umbrella slung casually across his shoulder like it’s not also a weapon. Blond hair, tattoos curling over his collar, eyes sharp even when his tone is easy. “Name’s Enjin. These are my acquaintances. Don’t mind ’em.” He slips off his own mask, revealing a calm, deliberate smile. “And sorry for sitting back while you nearly got chewed up. Had to make sure you were the real deal. Right, Rudo?”

“Yep,” Rudo says without hesitation, eyes fixed on you. “Saw you use your power. Doesn’t that mean they’re a Giver?”

“Good with your vital instrument, too,” Enjin adds, almost approving. Then his gaze pins you. “We need that kind of talent back at the organization. So—” he spins the umbrella once, as if punctuating the air, “wanna join us Cleaners?”

The what now?