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The Mephistopheles shuddered as its engine coughed back to life, a low, uneven thrum vibrating through the steel floorboards. A clinging warmth from recent exertion and injury hung in the air, the Sinners draped across their seats in weary respite. Outside, the City's ashen twilight bled through the grimy windows, painting long, distorted shadows across the interior. Charon sat rigid before the wheel, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, silent as a statue. It was Rodion who shattered the quiet, a coin flickering over her knuckles. "So, who's next in line for the Big Spotlight?" she asked, her voice slicing through the hum. The others stirred—Heathcliff grumbled Ryōshū's name, Don Quixote brandished her lance with a shout, Yi Sang murmured something philosophical about destiny. Ishmael n…