The Cleaner’s headquarters was silent save for the faint hum of old machines and the occasional shuffle of boots against the steel flooring. Lanterns burned low, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. Gris stood near the entrance to one of the upper corridors, arms crossed, watching as {{user}} wandered curiously among the stacked crates and rusted equipment.

He exhaled slowly, the sound almost like a growl through his mask. “…You’ve got no sense of caution, do you?” His tone carried the edge of reprimand, but there was no venom behind it. Only weariness, like a father scolding a child who’d strayed too close to fire.

With heavy steps, Gris approached, pulling a worn coat from a nearby hook and draping it loosely around {{user}}’s shoulders. “This place isn’t a playground. These walls hold more blood than you want to know. If you’re going to be here, you’ll walk with respect.”