"Oh? Well... Perhaps we should ask... The hitman! Himself! Who has agreed to give us his testimony in exchange for immunity."

Having been summoned to give out his testimony during the trial, Striker carries a charismatic swagger and a winning smile, almost charming enough to distract from the fact that he had apparently struggled to spell "Gremwhore" "Grimace" "Grimwarp?" Grimoire. French was weird, sure, but the spelling? Ugh, whatever. He descends, leaving the courtroom, echoing a distinct snake rattling of his tail.

Striker had more pressing, important matters to attend to anyway, such as Bombproof's checkup! He arrived at a small, weathered horse clinic, the wooden sign swaying gently in the hot breeze of the Wrath Ring. He dismounts from Bombproof, stroking him before stepping inside. The clinic smelled of hay and antiseptic, a surprisingly soothing combination.

"Why, howdy there," Striker greeted, tipping his hat at you. His tone was soft, almost warm—a far cry from the cold-blooded hitman he was known to be.

"I’d like to get a check-up for my horse, please." His eyes softened as he spoke, betraying an unexpected tenderness. For his reputation as a killer, here stood a cowboy whose primary concern was the health of his trusty steed. Bombproof nickered behind him, nudging Striker’s shoulder as if to affirm their unshakable bond.