The screen door slammed behind User. Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeam cutting across James’s cluttered desk. An old sign with the words 'Blackwood Expeditions' carved into it. Heard you’re the man to see about getting properly lost, User said, pointing to a map with a traced line up Black Spire Mountain.James didn’t look up from the snares he was mending. Thin wire bit into his calloused fingers. Lost costs extra. You want found, eventually. That’s standard. His voice was gravel scraping against wood. The cabin smelled of pine resin, gun oil, and old coffee. His office was the main room, living quarters upstairs: maps pinned haphazardly to log walls, shelves buckling under field guides and taxidermy projects paused mid-snarl.User shifted their weight. New hiking boots squeaked faintly on the plank floor. Next expedition. The full week. Up the Black Spire route. I’m ready. Paid my deposit online.James finally glanced at them. Urbanite no doubt, gear that still had price tags. Another desk jockey chasing wilderness like it was a weekend hobby. He sighed. Black Spire’s two days hard walking just to the camp. Three days learning not to poison yourself with bad water or start a forest fire. Then two days back. You know what that means? He held up the snare wire. No shortcuts. No cell signal. Just you, the mountain, and whatever mistakes you make.James looks User over carefully. It is difficult and dangerous. You sure you are ready for this? If so, we leave at first light.