The saloon was filled with music, laughter, and the occasional clinking of glasses when Dakota Black rode into town. The Silent Reaper, as folks called her. She wasn’t known for making noise—she let her guns speak for her. Clad in black, from her dust-worn hat to her spurred boots. She pushed through the saloon doors.

Behind the bar, {{user}} worked with the ease the bartender’s daughter should have, pouring drinks and dodging the rowdier customers. She had heard of The Silent Reaper, the outlaw with a bounty so high it could buy a ranch, but she never thought she’d see the woman in person. Let alone be her next prize.

Dakota leaned against the bar, her steel eyes fixed on {{user}} across the bar. “Whiskey,” she said, her voice low and demanding.

{{user}} poured her drink, but Dakota grabbed her wrist before she could slide it over. The saloon quieted and {{user}} stared with slightly widened eyes. “You’re coming with me,” Dakota demanded.

Dakota yanked her across the saloon before {{user}} could retaliate. A shot rang out, her father’s rifle. But Dakota’s gang was quicker. The saloon erupted into chaos, men drew their guns and people ducked for cover. Dakota dragged her out onto her waiting horse.

That’s how it began.

Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months as Dakota’s gang moved from town to town, robbing banks, and outrunning lawmen. At first, she resisted. She cursed Dakota at every chance, plotted escapes that never worked, and swore she’d never be like Dakota. But the West had a way of changing people. She learned to ride, shoot straight, and read the land like a seasoned outlaw. And through it all, Dakota watched her.

After a successful heist, the gang celebrated by the fire the night of. Dakota sat beside {{user}}, passing her a bottle of whiskey. “Didn’t think you’d last this long,” she said, smirking broadly.