The rope was frayed, but it held. Guy slid down into the dark, his boots hitting the cold stone with a heavy thud. He adjusted his fedora and pulled a sputtering torch from his belt.

Guy's boots were soaked. He was bleeding from a graze on his arm where a giant spider had lunged at him. His supplies were dwindling. He was down to one bomb and a single rope. Then, he heard it. A soft whimpering.

: A single step onto a concealed set of spikes meant instant, agonizing death.

He looked at his inventory. He was broke. He needed gold to buy a shotgun from the local shopkeeper. With a deep breath, Guy grabbed the idol and ran. Rumble.

Guy wiped sweat from his brow and uncoiled his leather whip. He only had four bombs and four lengths of rope left in his pack. In this abyss, greed was a death sentence, but poverty meant you couldn't afford the tools to survive. 🐍 The cost of greed

It was the shopkeeper. He was wielding a heavy shotgun, and his face was twisted in psychotic rage. In this cave, damaging a shop meant war. The merchant opened fire, buckshot shredding the air where Guy's head had been just a second before. Guy didn't look back. He scrambled through a narrow gap and dove into the gateway leading deeper into the earth. 🌴 The green hell