Chapter 3

The pain hit me like a knife twisting in my gut. I doubled over, clutching my stomach.

"Sera!" Amara was beside me in seconds. "What's wrong?"

"It hurts," I gasped. The cramping was getting worse.

She helped me sit down on a supply crate and pressed her hand to my forehead. "You're burning up. When did you last eat?"

I tried to remember. Between the helicopter drama and the mine collapse, food hadn't exactly been a priority. "This morning, I think."

"Atlas!" Amara called out. "Bring some water and those protein bars from the medical supplies."

He jogged over, took one look at me, and frowned. "Dehydration?"

"Probably. Plus stress and malnutrition." Amara took the water bottle from him and held it to my lips. "Small sips."

The water tasted like metal, but it was the most refreshing thing I'd ever had. Slowly, the cramping began to ease.

"You need to take better care of yourself," Atlas said bluntly. "Especially in your condition."

"I'm fine," I said, though we all knew it was a lie.

He studied me for a moment. "Actually, since you're here, I could use your help with something."

I looked up at him, surprised. He'd barely spoken to me since Donovan left.

"I need to map the mine's internal structure before we attempt any more rescues," he explained. "The geological surveys we have are outdated, and after yesterday's collapse, everything's changed. I need someone to operate camera equipment while I navigate the tunnels."

"You want me to go down there?" The thought made my stomach clench again, but not from pain this time. From fear.

"You're a photographer. You understand light, angles, technical requirements." He shrugged. "The local guys are all needed for the heavy lifting. You're the only one with the right skills."

Amara squeezed my shoulder. "You don't have to do this."

But I was already standing up. "Yes, I do."

Atlas raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? It's not a tourist photo op down there. It's dark, cramped, and dangerous. One wrong step and you could trigger another collapse."

"I've been in war zones," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "I can handle a mine."

That was complete bullshit. War zones were chaotic but open. This would be like being buried alive.

An hour later, I was strapping on a mining helmet with a headlamp that felt heavier than my entire camera kit. Atlas handed me a modified action camera with extra LED attachments.

"Keep this recording at all times," he instructed. "I need continuous footage of the tunnel structure, especially any cracks or unstable areas."

We approached the mine entrance. It looked like the mouth of some ancient beast, jagged and dark. The smell that wafted out was indescribable – earth, metal, and something else I didn't want to identify.

"Stay close," Atlas said. "Don't touch the walls unless I tell you to. Don't make any sudden movements. And if I say run, you run."

We started our descent into hell.

The first thing that hit me was the absolute darkness. My headlamp created a small bubble of light, but beyond that, the blackness was so complete it felt solid. The second thing was the sound – or lack of it. Down here, even our breathing seemed unnaturally loud.

"How deep are we going?" My voice echoed strangely in the tunnel.

"About two hundred meters to reach the trapped workers," Atlas replied. "We're taking the main shaft first, then branching off to access the collapsed areas."

The tunnel was narrower than I'd expected. I had to duck in places, and my shoulders occasionally brushed against the rocky walls. The air was thick and stale, making each breath feel insufficient.

"Focus on the ceiling joints," Atlas instructed, pointing upward. "Those wooden supports are what's keeping tons of rock from crushing us."

Great. No pressure at all.

But as we went deeper, something strange happened. The fear began to fade, replaced by professional focus. Through my camera viewfinder, the mine became less terrifying and more fascinating. I started noticing details – the way the rock layers revealed the earth's history, the engineering marvel of these tunnels carved by human hands.

"Wait," I called out. "There's a crack pattern here that doesn't look natural."

Atlas backtracked to where I was filming. He examined the area with his flashlight, then nodded approvingly. "Good eye. That's from the blast yesterday. This whole section's compromised."

We marked the location and continued deeper. The further we went, the more my photographer's instincts kicked in. I began anticipating what Atlas needed before he asked for it, adjusting angles and lighting to capture the most useful footage.

"You're not half bad at this," he admitted as we navigated a particularly tricky junction.

"Thanks. I think."

We'd been underground for almost two hours when we finally reached the area where miners were trapped. Atlas called out in Zulu, and voices answered from behind a wall of debris.

While he assessed the rescue possibilities, I continued filming. One of the miners, a young man who spoke broken English, managed to get my attention through a gap in the rocks.

"Miss, you are journalist?" he asked quietly.

"Photographer, yes."

He glanced around nervously, then leaned closer. "You know the blonde lady doctor? The one who left yesterday?"

My heart skipped. "Ivory? What about her?"

His eyes darted to where Atlas was working, then back to me. "She came down here before the accident. Was asking strange questions about our families, our money problems. Taking notes."

"What kind of questions?"

"How much we owe, who we send money to, if we have insurance." He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "Miss, be careful of that woman. She is not who she pretends to be."