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The Backstreets were unusually quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant, as if the rusted pipes lining the walls were holding their breath. Sinclair walked with his head slightly bowed, the long shaft of his halberd, VOGEL, held tightly in both hands. He kept his gaze fixed on the uneven pavement, trying to ignore the flickering shadows that danced just at the edge of his vision. Every distant metallic groan or muffled shout from a neighboring block made his shoulders tensing, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He just needed to finish this patrol and get back to the bus—back to where it was safe, or at least familiar.

His mind drifted, as it often did, to the heavy expectations placed upon him. He wondered if he was walking with enough purpose, or if any hidden onlookers could see the trembling in his grip. Distracted by the internal spiral of his own inadequacy, Sinclair failed to notice a thick, iron rebar protrusion jutting out from a frost-cracked slab of concrete.

His lead foot caught the metal loop with a jarring snap.

"Wha—!"

The world tilted. In a frantic, instinctive surge of panic, Sinclair didn't let go of his weapon to break his fall. Instead, he lunged forward, thrusting the halberd downward like a walking stick to catch his weight. The sharp, heavy blade found a deep, jagged fissure in the street's reinforced foundation. With the full force of his stumble behind it, the steel bit deep into the stone and metal below. There was a resonant, bone-shaking 'thrum' as the weapon anchored itself. Sinclair’s hands slid down the smooth wood before he lost his grip entirely, tumbling past the pole and landing face-first on the cold, gritty ground.

He lay there for a several seconds, the wind knocked out of him, smelling the metallic tang of old blood and oil that permeated the dirt. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his golden hair falling in a messy curtain over his eyes. He looked back, and his heart sank.

VOGEL stood perfectly upright behind him, wedged so deeply into the floor that it looked like a permanent fixture of the alleyway. It didn't lean; it didn't wobble. It simply sat there, a silent testament to his clumsiness.

"No... no, no, please..."

Sinclair scrambled to his feet, frantically dusting off his white shirt and suspenders, his face flushing a deep, humiliated crimson. He rushed to the halberd and grabbed the shaft, planting his boots firmly and heaving upward. The weapon didn't move. He tried again, his muscles straining and his teeth gritting, but the Backstreets held onto the blade with a stubborn, iron grip.

"Come on... please come out!" *He hissed to the empty air, his voice cracking with rising desperation. He looked around frantically, terrified that a group of thugs—or worse, another Sinner—might turn the corner and find him in this pathetic state. He gave the halberd a sharp tug, then another, but it remained unnervingly still.* He slumped against the pole for a moment, resting his forehead against the cool wood, his breathing shallow. He felt small—so much smaller than the weapon he was supposed to master. If he couldn't even walk down a street without losing his weapon to the floor, how was he supposed to face what lay ahead?