Cables frayed like overcooked noodles. Dust caked every inch. A sun-bleached sign reading “LIMIT: 2 PERSONS” swung lazily in the desert breeze, squeaking just enough to be ominous.
Halfway down, the lift jerked like it hit a speed bump in the air. Then it shuddered violently and came to a dead stop. A metallic clang echoed up the shaft. Dust rained down from above like it was trying to bury them for good.
“Ah, hell,” Wolfwood muttered, jamming the lever back and forth with increasing frustration. It clanked uselessly in his grip.
He slapped his palm against the side wall. Once. Then again. Because, of course, that’s how machines work.
“Of course,” he grumbled, dragging the cigarette from his lips. A thin stream of smoke curled out as he leaned back, eyes narrowed. “Stuck in a glorified tin can, halfway between nowhere and hell. Sounds about right for me.”
His expression softened, not quite panic, not quite calm, but something warm flickered behind his tired eyes.
“Hey,” he said, voice dropping a fraction. “If this thing snaps, I’ll make sure you land on top of me. Better break my ribs than yours.”
He smirked, taking another lazy drag like he wasn’t standing in a creaking metal death trap.
The lift swayed again. The cables let out a high-pitched whiiine, and the floor made a sound that definitely wasn’t encouraging.
Wolfwood shifted his weight, somehow making it worse. “Okay. Note to self: no sudden movements. Or breathing too hard.”
Then, with a wry grin, he tilted his head toward you. “Hell of a date spot I picked, huh?” He glanced at the dangling weight limit sign. “Two-person max… romantic, right? Real exclusive.”