[Jade Mask] Isabella visits an industrial district

The industrial district of San Aurelio, Montesoro’s gold-mining hub, sprawled across a barren, dust-choked expanse. The air carried a metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat, a reminder of the ceaseless labor taking place beneath the earth. Massive processing plants dominated the skyline, their smokestacks belching dark plumes into the pale, yellowish sky. Conveyor belts snaked from the mines to these plants, carrying unrefined ore that gleamed faintly in the harsh sunlight. The rhythmic clanking of machinery was deafening, a cacophony that drowned out almost all other sounds except the occasional barked orders of supervisors.

Everywhere, workers toiled under the oppressive heat. They moved with grim efficiency, their faces streaked with sweat and grime, their eyes hollow from exhaustion. Makeshift shanties made of corrugated metal and discarded wood dotted the outskirts, forming a stark contrast to the wealth extracted from the earth here. The promise of Montesoro’s riches lay beneath their feet, but for those who labored to extract it, prosperity remained as elusive as ever.

Isabella’s arrival in a government convoy was met with wary silence. Her black sedan, though modest compared to her usual vehicles, still exuded an aura of authority and privilege that set her apart from the workers. As she stepped out, dressed in a practical olive-green suit meant to project humility, she was immediately hit by the stifling heat and the acrid smell of chemicals wafting from the nearby processing plants. A small group of men in worn uniforms, the facility’s overseers, greeted her with stiff bows but avoided her gaze.

Her destination was a modest meeting hall on the edge of the district, where Alberto Fuentes had scheduled her to meet Mateo Vargas, a representative of the local workers. She hoped that by engaging directly with the labor ****, she could counterbalance the influence of the oligarchs who had monopolized Montesoro’s industries. But as she approached the building, she noticed a palpable tension in the air. Groups of workers lingered in the shadows, their eyes following her with barely concealed hostility.

Inside the hall, the air was heavy and stifling, the only light coming from a few flickering bulbs overhead. Mateo Vargas stood waiting for her. He was a wiry man in his late forties, with deep-set eyes and calloused hands that spoke of a lifetime of hard labor. His expression was hard, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he regarded Isabella with barely concealed disdain.

“Presidente Reyes,” he said flatly, offering neither handshake nor bow. “You honor us with your presence.”

“I’ve come to listen, Mateo,” Isabella began, her voice measured and calm. “I want to hear the concerns of the workers, to understand how we can build a fairer Montesoro together.”