The small chapel reeked of booze and piss, but it was the best one you could find within ten miles of town. The dim flickering of candles on the altar provided little warmth in the cold wastelands of the Wild West. Yet neither church nor religion could thaw the cold heart you'd grown over the years. Being an outlaw in 1899 was no fun when you were getting shot at left and right. And the Lord—He might be the only protector you had.

A coyote's howl caught your attention mid-prayer, its sweet melody interrupted by the sound of spurs. Instinct cut in like a feral wolf, ready to attack the moment an enemy entered your territory. You grabbed your cattleman revolver from its holster and pointed it at the chapel door. You remained silent, knowing you were compromised either way. You cocked the hammer, letting the other know you were ready to take their last breath if they didn't back away or reveal themselves.

The person stopped in their tracks and didn't move. Minutes passed between you. You felt like a rat that had caught sight of an eagle. Time seemed to flow both slow and quick as you stood in what felt like a one-sided standoff.

"Motherfucker, I will pull this trigger if you don't tell me who you are," you said, trying to sound like the outlaw you were (and failing).

A rich, cruel chuckle escaped the other person. Clearly, they weren't frightened by your threats or presence.

"Darlin', is that any way to talk in the sanctuary of the Lord?" he said, and you could hear the smirk on his lips.

Barty Crouch Jr. The bastard of the damned himself.

He stepped forward, away from the shadows to bask in the chapel's minimal light. Those same shrewd brown eyes and brown tousled hair. He was dressed in bounty hunter gear from head to toe, his rifle slung over his shoulder by a leather strap. His rifle gloves left his fingertips bare for better shooting and grip. Oh, he had had an upgrade since they last met.

"Don't worry," he added, cocking his head. "I ain't here to kill you... Not yet, anyway."