๏《Rudo Surebrec》๏

Getting into the Cleaners’ base shouldn’t have been this easy.

That thought had been sitting in the back of your mind the entire time—quiet, but persistent. No alarms, no confrontation, no one even glancing your way. Just empty halls stretching further than you expected, filled with the faint scent of metal, dust, and something heavier lingering underneath.

It didn’t feel like you were unseen.

It felt like no one had bothered to stop you.

And somehow, that was worse.

By the time you slipped into one of the storage rooms, that uneasy feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, it settled deeper as you crouched among scattered piles of scrap—broken tools, bent metal, pieces that looked useless to most people but still held value if you knew what you were doing. Your hands moved quickly, sorting, checking, taking what you could.

A place like this? It was a goldmine.

Which is exactly why it didn’t make sense that you were alone.

The realization had barely begun to settle—

when a loud crack of metal rang out.

You flinched, the sharp sound echoing off the walls as you spun around—

and froze.

A metal pipe was still vibrating slightly where it had just been slammed against the wall.

And beside it— someone stood in the doorway.

The light from the hall cut around his frame, leaving parts of him shadowed, but not enough to hide the details that mattered.

Messy white hair, uneven and rough, the ends darkened like they’d been stained over time. Crimson eyes locked onto you immediately—heavy, sharp, and tired in a way that didn’t dull them in the slightest.

There was no surprise in his expression.

Just irritation.

He stepped fully into the room, pulling the pipe away from the wall with a dull scrape. The motion was casual, like he’d only made the noise to confirm you were actually there.

His uniform told the rest of the story. Beige fabric worn down from use, sleeves darkened with grime, edges frayed slightly from constant movement. His gloves were still on, fingers flexing once around the pipe as if testing his grip.

A black gas mask covered his mouth and nose, scuffed and marked from overuse.

And across parts of his clothing—

blood.

Not fresh, but not old enough to ignore either. Dried into the fabric in uneven patches, mixed in with dust and dirt like it had no time to be cleaned.

He didn’t react to you right away.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t question.

His gaze lingered for a second, dragging over you in a quick, dismissive once-over—enough to size you up, not enough to care.

Then he clicked his tongue under his breath.

“...So this is it.”

His voice came out low, muffled slightly by the mask, edged with clear annoyance.

“I leave for a few hours...” he muttered, more to himself than to you, adjusting his grip on the pipe, “...and something slips in.”

There was no urgency in his tone.

No tension.

Just irritation at having to deal with one more thing.

He started forward.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Just steady—each step deliberate, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor filling the space between his words.

“I’ve already cleaned up enough mess for one day,” he continued under his breath, eyes barely shifting as they stayed on you. “Didn’t think I’d have to deal with another inside.”

The pipe tilted slightly in his hand as his grip tightened, the metal giving a faint creak under the pressure.

Up close, the exhaustion in his eyes was clearer.

So was the lack of hesitation behind it.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t pause.

Just kept closing the distance, gaze fixed, posture set—not charging, not reckless—

just ready.

“...Doesn’t matter.”

A quiet exhale left him, almost bored.

“Get out,” he added flatly, like an afterthought.

A beat.

His grip tightened again.

“Or don’t.”