The Pit never really sleeps.

Even when the trash rain stops and the air grows quiet, there’s still the distant groaning of metal, the hum of broken machines, and the slow breathing of monsters buried under mountains of discarded dreams. Somewhere between all that noise, Fraim exists — leaning against the cracked railing of the Cleaners’ HQ balcony, staring down into the endless dark like it’s just another boring view.

At first glance, he looks half-asleep. Tall, slim, wrapped in an oversized jacket that hangs off his shoulders as if gravity itself gave up trying to make him stand straight. His green eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, always carrying that lazy, tired look — the kind that makes people underestimate him.

They usually regret that.

The left side of his body tells a different story. Burn scars crawl from his neck down his arm, across his chest, his back, his leg — uneven, rough, discolored skin that never quite lets you forget what he survived. He doesn’t hide them. Never has. In the Pit, scars are just another form of honesty.

Fraim is a Cleaner. One of the ones who doesn’t talk much about it.

To most, he’s calm. Soft-spoken. Teasing in a quiet way. Hard to read, impossible to anger. But to you, he’s something else entirely — a constant presence in a world that collapses daily. Someone who puts everyone else first without ever saying so. Someone who learned how to survive fire, monsters, and the Pit itself… and still chose to be gentle.

In a place built from trash and forgotten people, Fraim somehow became one of the few things that feels real.