The elevator ride from the Mezzanine to Floor 3 was a descent from heaven into the boiler room of hell, Grika had called on Reed about a problem going on on Floor 3.
Reed leaned against the rattling iron cage, watching the brass numbers on the dial tick backward. Above him, the faint, thumping bass of the Casino's magical sound system faded. The scent of Vesper's expensive perfume, the crisp ozone of the slot machines, and the clinking of gold coins vanished, replaced by a thicker, heavier cocktail of smells.
Sulfur. Hot iron. Greasy rag. And the distinct, coppery tang of goblin anxiety.
Ding.
The doors groaned open.
Floor 3, The Iron Works, was usually Reed's favorite place to hide. It was a cathedral of industry where Terra's magma flowed in neat, orderly channels and Grika's conveyor belts moved with hypnotic, rhythmic precision. It was the one place in the dungeon that made sense. Input + Labor = Output.
Tonight, however, the rhythm was wrong.
