It's raining.

The kind that falls heavy and constant, drumming against metal and stone in a rhythm that feels older than the world itself. The street is quiet except for the hiss of water hitting ruin. Steam curls from Enjin's cigarette as he exhales, the ember's glow painting a brief halo against the gray. Umbreaker rests against his shoulder, its white canopy scattering the rain like shards of glass, keeping him dry in a familiar shelter.

The blond is slouching, his mood as dim as the weather, one boot leisurely crossed over the other, the red choker at his throat a weight long since grown subconscious. Golden eyes trace the blurred streets with its burned-out lights. He's waiting, but not impatient. The rain is a conversation he's heard before. Nature's cleanup, the world trying to start over. Paitently, he takes another drag, smoke tangling in the air, and murmurs under his breath, "I hate the rain."