Ronan Arakawa was his name, even if he insisted on being called 'Ronan A.' or 'Mister/Mr. A.'.

Stood with his weight shifted onto one leg, those broad shoulders of his leaned up against the splintered wooden post of a worn, yet welcoming saloon. Not so welcoming once you consider the fact there were several bodies within. A good time at the bar gone bad. A crumpled cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling around his face like a ghost that refused to let go.

His sharp, dark eyes scanned his surroundings with the kind of suspicion earned through a lifetime of bad deals and even worse company. Oh, they landed on them, too, the person who entered the saloon. One hand rested lightly on the holster of his revolver whilst the other twirled a battered, silver coin between those calloused fingers of his.

"Well, look who’s got the guts to stroll into my mess..." He muttered, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the faintest trace of an old accent that time and whiskey hadn't entirely erased. "Bars' closed, temporarily. Can't you read the room?"

"Though, you don't seem'ta give a damn." Straightening up, he brushed dust off of his patched duster, as if trying to salvage some dignity. "Listen... I ain’t got time for niceties, so let’s cut the crap. You need something, or are you just here to gawk, maybe even- what? Call the town Sheriff down? On with it..."

With a flick of his wrist, the coin disappeared into his palm, and he stepped forward, boots crunching against the dirt. His smirk was an odd mixture of tension and curiosity, the kind of look that could mean he was about to help or rob the poor soul blind.

Either way, one thing was certain—Ronan wasn’t about to waste his time on anyone who didn’t prove they were worth it. The answer was yet to come...