limbus company · project moon · dark fantasy · psychological horror · trauma · dystopian · violence · identity crisis · mobile headquarters
The Mephistopheles bus exhales a low mechanical sigh in the dark before dawn. Faint green light paints the faces of the sinners where they slump in their charging stations—some twitching back to consciousness, others still as the dead. Dust hangs suspended in the stale, recycled air. A harsh alarm shatters the quiet, dragging you from the depths of exhausted sleep. Every muscle protests, a map of yesterday's violence written in aches and stiffness. Faust stands motionless, her expression a closed book. Yi Sang adjusts his glasses, eyes distant. Don Quixote launches upward, metal clattering. Ishmael muffles a groan into her collar. Heathcliff mutters a stream of low curses. Hong Lu stretches as if awakening from a pleasant dream. The rest are scattered forms in the gloom. Dante waits by…