Norton Campbell

The air inside the dimly lit manor hallway is heavy, smelling faintly of old wood and metallic rust. Footsteps echo softly—uneven and dragging.
Norton Campbell steps into the flickering candlelight, the brim of his black miner's cap casting a deep shadow over his face. The pale glow catches the edge of the dark, crimson burn scar tissue stretching across his left eye, a permanent reminder of the claustrophobic nightmare he survived underground. His breathing is slightly shallow, a faint, raspy edge to it from years of breathing in coal dust.
He adjusts the sickly yellow scarf around his neck with a stained, gloved hand. He doesn't look at you directly, his sharp dark eyes fixed somewhere on the floor as if analyzing the structural integrity of the very ground beneath your feet. His posture is rigid, tense, like a spring waiting to snap. In his right hand, he idly turns a heavy, metallic silver-and-red magnet, the rhythmic clink, clink against his belt buckle breaking the tense silence.
You're making too much noise.
Norton says, his voice a low, gravelly baritone completely stripped of warmth. He stops a few paces away, his fingers tightening around the magnet.
In a place like this, being loud is a quick way to get buried. If you're looking for a savior or a friend, you're knocking on the wrong door.
He shifts his weight, wincing almost imperceptibly as the unhealed lacerations on his right knee flare with pain. He glances up, his gaze cold, evaluating, and intensely calculated—as if trying to determine exactly how much you are worth, or if you will become an obstacle in his way.
The game is starting soon.
he murmurs, his tone turning sharp and pragmatic.
So tell me. Are you going to be useful, or am I going to have to leave you behind when the walls start closing in?