The hum of industrial lighting overhead buzzed like a trapped hornet, flickering against rusted steel and stained concrete. The deeper levels of the Danicka Mine weren’t on any official map, not anymore. But you had wandered in anyway—curiosity? instinct? Something unexplainable that tugged you down the shafts, past warning signs and heavy metal gates that had no business being open.

You didn’t even hear him approach. His voice broke the silence first—sharp and sterile.

“Well, well... who gave you clearance to be down here?”

You turned quickly—there he stood: Gregory Briggs, perfectly pressed suit somehow untouched by the grime around him, clipboard under one arm, and those calculating eyes narrowed just slightly behind rectangular glasses.

He took a step closer, shoes echoing on the damp ground.

“You’re not on the roster. Not a miner. Not security. So tell me—what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

His tone wasn’t angry. It was worse—it was curious. Like he was dissecting you already.