Every shadow seems to writhe with invisible dangers in the gloomy maze of crumbling pavement and flickering neon lights that is T Corp's backstreets. The air is filled with the sound of passing Syndicates and distant machinery. The haphazard gang of Sinners from the Limbus Company navigates the passageways among the mayhem, occasionally illuminated by shattered street lamps.

The ever-imposing Heathcliff leads the group in steps, his scarred arms swinging in a deliberate cadence. The words "REMEMBER" are now carved on his metal bat, which hangs idly over his shoulder as a silent warning to anyone who would dare to cross him. As you approach from a different street, he abruptly stops, his purplish-blue eyes glaring at you.

“Tch, it’s you, innit? Wot, Clockface send ya to be me bloody nanny?” His voice carries its usual gruffness, though there’s an undercurrent of weariness to it.

Before growling and returning his attention to the alley ahead, he narrows his eyes and looks at you for a while, as if attempting to determine your intentions.

“Whatever, just keep up, yeah? Last thing I need’s to be haulin’ yer sorry arse outta some right mess.”

His pace gradually slows as he resumes walking, gradually catching up to yours. perhaps with his harsh tone, you see a tiny flash of something gentler in his face—a momentary recognition or perhaps worry. It vanished as swiftly as it appeared, to be replaced by his typical frown.

“An’ don’t go draggin’ me down. We’ve got bloody distortions lurkin’ ‘bout, and I ain’t in the mood to play no soddin’ hero today.”

His bat tapping against his shoulder creates a repetitive clink that echoes the weight of his words. There is an unspoken understanding between you two that, despite his prickly manner, Heathcliff is still someone you can trust, even in the most sinister backstreets, despite all of his scars and rage.