The air in the Maxwell Steel Foundry hung thick and heavy, a miasma of coal dust, sweat, and a low, metallic hum that vibrated in Leo’s bones. It was a symphony of industry, or at least, it should have been. Instead, it sounded like a dying beast, each clang and groan a testament to the foundry's failing health.

He stood on a raised platform overlooking the main furnace, the roar of the flames momentarily eclipsing the other sounds. Molten steel, a viscous orange river, poured from the crucible into waiting molds, casting harsh shadows that danced across the faces of the workers. Faces etched with worry, Leo noted. More worry than fatigue, and he understood fatigue well enough.

He’d spent the last few days familiarizing himself with the operation, burying himself in blueprints, ledgers, and the grimy reality of the factory floor. The reports painted a grim picture: unexplained breakdowns, inexplicable errors in the automated systems, and a steadily declining output despite the workforce remaining at full capacity. Equipment that should have lasted for decades was failing prematurely, often in spectacular and baffling ways.

The official explanations were unsatisfactory, bordering on the absurd. Electrical surges, metal fatigue, human error – all plausible in isolation, but together they formed a pattern that felt deliberate, almost malicious.

“What do you think, Leo?” Arthur, his uncle and the current factory manager, stood beside him, his face etched with a permanent frown. Arthur was a man of routine, of precise measurements and predictable outcomes. The current situation clearly gnawed at him.

Leo ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “The breakdowns are…consistent,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Too consistent to be random. We need to run a full diagnostic on the control systems, check for sabotage, anything that could explain this level of systemic failure.”

Arthur sighed, the sound like air escaping a punctured tire. “We’ve done that, Leo. Repeatedly. The engineers are stumped. They’ve replaced circuits, recalibrated the timers, even consulted with experts from Pittsburgh. Nothing. The machines…they just break.”

He gestured towards a massive hydraulic press that stood silent and inert, its metal frame scarred with scorch marks. “That was brand new, installed just last year. Supposed to last at least fifteen years. Gone in six months. Blew a seal bigger than my head, damn near killed a man.”

Leo frowned. He’d seen the press. The damage was…unnatural. Not the kind of failure you'd expect from a burst seal. More like an explosion.

He leaned closer to Arthur, lowering his voice. "And the workers? What do they say?"

Arthur hesitated, glancing around at the men toiling below. "They…they talk. Rumors, whispers, you know. Superstition, mostly."

"Superstition?" Leo prompted.

"Bad luck. Hexes. Some even claim the factory is cursed. Ever since the old man started dabbling…" Arthur trailed off, his gaze fixed on the furnace.

Leo knew who "the old man" was. His grandfather, Elijah Maxwell, the founder of Maxwell Industries, a man shrouded in both legend and rumour. He'd heard the stories, dismissed them as exaggerated folklore surrounding a ruthless industrialist. But Elijah’s legacy, it seemed, was more complex than he initially understood.

He decided to play along. “Dabbling in what, exactly?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Things better left forgotten. Tales of…experiments. Unconventional methods to improve production. I never paid them much mind." He clearly didn't want to elaborate.

Leo persisted. "What kind of experiments? What unconventional methods?"

Arthur shook his head. "Just old wives' tales, Leo. Don't waste your time on them. We need solutions, not ghost stories."

Leo knew he wouldn't get anything more out of Arthur. He turned back to the factory floor, observing the workers. Their movements were hesitant, almost fearful, as if they expected the machines to turn on them at any moment. He could hear snippets of conversations carried on the draft:

"…heard it was the steel itself, corrupted by the…."

"…old furnace, they say it's hungry. Needs a sacrifice…"

"…saw it myself, a flicker in the metal, like a…."

He recognized the language of fear, the irrationality born of desperation. He, of all people, understood the power of that kind of fear. He'd lived with it for years, the fear of failure, the fear of being unable to control the technology he’d dedicated his life to.

He dismissed it as superstition, just as Arthur did. He was a scientist, an engineer. He dealt in facts, logic, and verifiable data. There was no room for magic or curses in his world. Or at least, there hadn't been until a few days ago.

Later that day, an incident occurred that shook his certainty. He was inspecting a large stamping machine, a behemoth of gears and pistons designed to form sheet metal into intricate shapes. He'd spent hours poring over its schematics, trying to identify any potential weaknesses or design flaws.

He was standing next to a young worker named Thomas, a wiry kid with grease-stained hands and a nervous twitch, when it happened.

The machine was in operation, rhythmically hammering down onto a sheet of steel, when suddenly, with a screech that echoed through the factory, the hydraulic arm twisted violently, snapping the reinforced steel like a twig. The massive stamping head, weighing several tons, swung wildly, narrowly missing Thomas before crashing into the ground with earth-shattering force.

The entire factory floor fell silent. Dust and debris filled the air. Workers froze, their faces pale with shock.

Leo rushed to Thomas's side. Miraculously, the young man was unharmed, just shaken. “Are you alright?” Leo asked, his voice tight with adrenaline.

Thomas stared at the wreckage, his eyes wide with terror. "I…I don't know what happened. It just…snapped. All on its own.”

Leo examined the broken arm. The fracture was clean, but the metal around it was…warped. Distorted in a way he couldn't explain. It looked like something had exerted an immense, localized force, twisting the steel until it failed.

He walked around the machine, examining the control panel. No sign of malfunction, no indication of an electrical surge or mechanical failure. The machine logs were clean. It was as if the break had occurred spontaneously, without any external cause.

The foreman, a burly man named Kowalski, arrived on the scene, his face grim. "Another one," he muttered, shaking his head. "Just like the others. Nothing makes sense."

Leo pointed to the broken arm. "What do you make of this, Kowalski?"

Kowalski shrugged, his eyes filled with a resignation that bordered on despair. "Bad luck, Mr. Maxwell. Bad luck is all it is. The foundry's cursed, I tell you. Cursed."

Leo wanted to dismiss his words, to offer a rational explanation. But looking at the twisted wreckage, feeling the weight of the workers' fear, a seed of doubt began to sprout in his mind. He had seen things, experienced things in the last few days that defied logic and reason. Things that suggested the world was not as he had always believed it to be.

He remembered the desperate fear in Sarah's eyes, her raw power simmering just beneath the surface. The casual mention of Binding Contracts, and the horrors that came with breaking one. Could the "superstition" be more than just a fabrication of worried workers?

He looked at Thomas, still trembling, and realized that he couldn’t afford to dismiss it. Not anymore. If there was something more to these breakdowns than just mechanical failure, if there was a hidden force at play, he needed to understand it.

He had to find out the truth behind the whispers in the steel.