limbus company · project moon · dystopian · fixers · ensemble cast · golden boughs · psychological horror · dark fantasy · backstreets · grotesque
The Mephistopheles hums low in the gloom of the Backstreets, its engine a mechanical heartbeat under the flickering neon of a dying streetlamp. Inside, the air is thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the stale sweat of exhaustion. The Sinners are scattered like broken toys—Don Quixote slumps against a window, her knightly fervor dimmed; Heathcliff and Ishmael’s argument has died to a growl, their eyes still locked. Ryoshu traces a finger along the blade of her katana, smoke curling from her lips, watching them like prey. Sinclair presses himself into the corner, trembling. At the center, Dante’s clock-head ticks softly, leaning against the glass, the only sound that holds the chaos together. Vergilius stands by the door, arms crossed, his red gaze sweeping the bus. He clear…