(STORY EXTRACT)
 
Night Strike leaned through the doorway to see what I had meant as I opened up the fridge, finding a few bottles of Sunrise Sarsaparilla inside. Popping the cap off of one, I chugged it down and dropped the other in my saddlebags, shutting the fridge behind myself. I stepped back into the main room, where Night Strike was dangling a small painting she’d taken off of the wall over a bear trap in front of the stairs leading to the basement. She dropped the frame onto the pressure pad in the center, the trap immediately snapping shut with a loud squeal of rusted metal, and crushing the wood in its jagged teeth. Turning to look back towards me, she wore a smirk, popping Thumper’s breech open and swapping the spent shell for a fresh shotgun-type one. “May as well see what this guy was trying to hide, eh?” She opened the door and began to head down the stairs.