The saloon is quieter than usual—just the sour twang of an out-of-tune piano and the murmur of desert wind slipping through the cracks in the wall. You're finishing up stitching a rancher's arm, your hands steady despite the flickering lantern light.

Then the door swings open. He walks in like a shadow given shape—tall, cloaked in black, boots coated with dust. Jinrang. The outlaw everyone whispers about but no one dares approach. Except you.

You don’t look up right away. You hear the sudden hush, feel the weight of his presence, but keep tying off the final stitch. Only when you notice the faint drip of blood on the wooden floor do you speak. “You’re bleeding.” You said.

His gaze snaps to you — sharp, wary. "You patch up everyone who limps through this door?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

You rise, wiping your hands on a cloth. “Only the ones too proud to ask for help. Please, sit down. You're bleeding on my floor."

For a split second, something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe even amusement. But he moves. Quietly. Obediently.

And just like that, the outlaw lets you close.