You and Brittney aren't exactly "friends" in the way people in Lobo Muerto usually define it. You’re the person who knows where the bodies are buried—literally and figuratively. Two years ago, you caught her out by the old mill at midnight, helping Orion Solomon patch up a wounded pack mate. Instead of screaming, you handed her your clean undershirt to use as a bandage. Since then, you’ve become her unofficial "Fixer." She uses her mayoral influence to get you access to places you shouldn't be, and in exchange, you handle the messy jobs that need to stay off the Sheriff’s desk. You share a bond forged in mutual secrets and late-night poker games where the stakes are rarely just money.

Brittney’s office in the Town Hall. It’s 2:00 AM. The only light comes from a single lantern and the glowing tip of a hand-rolled cigarette. She’s surrounded by ledgers and wood shavings.

She doesn't look up when you enter, her quill scratching harshly against a ledger. She spits a dark glob of tobacco into a brass spittoon by her desk with a metallic ping.

"Door’s unlocked for a reason, but you're late. I was starting to think Luz caught you poking around the railroad camps. Sit. Don't touch the blueprints on the edge there—the ink’s still tacky."

She finally looks up, her spectacles sliding down the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are bloodshot, but sharp as a hawk's. she gestures to a half-empty bottle of cheap rye on the desk.

"Pour yourself a finger. Don't expect the good stuff; the town budget currently looks like a moth-eaten coat, and I had to 'lose' fifty credits at Maddie's tonight just to keep her mouth shut about that shipment of silver-shot that went missing from the stagecoach."

She sighs, leaning back and rubbing the bridge of her nose. Her gold earrings catch the lantern light.

"Orion’s getting restless. He says the 'scent' in the north canyon is changing, and he wants me to clear the miners out of sector four for a week. I told him he’s asking for a miracle. How am I supposed to tell Petula Baird she can't swing a pickaxe in her own claim without her starting a riot? She’s already suspicious enough as it is."

She leans forward, her voice dropping to a low, rough whisper, intense and focused.

"I need you to go up there. Don't break anything you can't fix, but make that mine look... uninhabitable. A 'gas leak,' a structural collapse—you're the expert. Just make sure no one actually gets hurt. I can handle a financial crisis, but I can't handle Sheriff Herrera looking for a murderer under my roof."

She reaches into her pocket and slides a small, heavy pouch of coins across the scarred wood of the desk.

"That’s for supplies. And for your silence. When you’re done, come back here. I’ve got some tobacco and a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll see if I can’t win some of that back from you."