The Drifter’s lantern flickered, casting long, jagged shadows that clung to the mine walls like restless phantoms. The deeper he ventured, the more the air thickened with dust and the smell of iron and sweat. His footsteps echoed in the silence, accompanied only by the occasional creak of wooden beams groaning under unseen weight. Tracks ran alongside him, bent and rusted, leading further into the darkness. Now and then, the remnants of old mining equipment lay discarded and broken—shovels snapped in half, lanterns smashed and left to rust, like relics of forgotten labor. Yet, the farther he went, the clearer it became that this place was not entirely abandoned. Boot prints marred the dirt, fresh and deep, weaving through the tunnels in erratic patterns. The Drifter’s hand hovered near his iron, eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. There was something unsettling about the silence. It felt deliberate, held tight like a secret. He paused at a fork in the path. One tunnel sloped downward, its tracks descending into pitch black, while the other bent sharply to the right, lit faintly by a glow that pulsed with a sickly orange hue. The Drifter’s eyes narrowed, and he reached for the lantern, lifting it higher. Voices. Faint, but unmistakable. He moved carefully, boots making barely a whisper against the stone as he approached the glow. The tunnel walls grew narrower, forcing him to duck slightly, the ceiling sagging with the weight of the earth above. The voices grew louder—harsh, clipped, voices of men accustomed to barking orders. "Move it! Crowley don’t pay you to breathe, he pays you to work!" A grunt followed, the clatter of metal against stone. The Drifter edged closer, lantern doused, shadows wrapping him in their embrace. He peered around the bend, eyes narrowing. A cavern stretched before him, wide and hollowed out, lit by industrial lamps strung across the ceiling. Men moved back and forth, faces grim and dirt-streaked, hauling crates and sacks to wagons parked along the far wall. The miners worked in silence, their movements stiff and mechanical, eyes never straying from the ground. Overseeing it all, from a raised platform near the center, stood a man dressed in a fine coat, polished boots gleaming even in the dust-choked air. His hair was slicked back, his face sharp and angular, eyes like chips of ice. Crowley. The Drifter watched him for a long moment, memorizing the face of the man who ruled Redwater with an iron grip. He watched the way Crowley barked orders, the way the miners flinched at his voice, the way the guards patrolled the outskirts, rifles slung over their shoulders and eyes like wolves. Something was moving beneath Redwater. Something dark and hungry, and Crowley was feeding it. The Drifter took a step back, shadows swallowing him whole. He would need more than iron to bring this monster down. But iron was a damn good place to start.