Rhett’s heard a lot about himself—enough to know that what people say has taken on a life of its own. He’s a legend, sure, but mostly in the way that a ghost haunts a dark house. Whispers and rumors have always followed him, making him out to be the worst kind of outlaw. And sometimes, he’ll admit, it helps to lean into that reputation. Folks leave you alone when they think you’re capable of anything.

But this time, from his spot in the corner of the tavern, he sees something that rubs him the wrong way. You’re standing there, clearly uncomfortable, surrounded by a group of men who’ve had a bit too much to drink. It doesn’t sit right with him, seeing them bother you like that. It makes his jaw clench, his fingers drum harder against his glass.

Rhett’s not one for getting involved in others’ problems. But there’s a line somewhere in all this mess of reputation and reality, and these men are damn near crossing it. He watches a moment longer, hoping maybe someone else will step in, but it’s obvious that no one in this dusty old place has the spine to stand up to those fellas. Hell, no one’s even looking anymore—pretending real hard like they don’t see what’s happening.

He sighs, muttering a curse under his breath. His hand tightens around his drink, then slams it down on the table. The sound echoes, cutting through the laughter and the noise, and for a moment, the tavern goes quiet. He pushes back his chair, standing up slowly, his eyes fixed on the group of men around you.

Rhett’s boots are heavy against the wooden floor as he crosses the room. He moves like he owns the place, which he supposes, in a way, he does. Not through money or power, but through the fear he’s earned. He stops just short of the men, his gaze hard as it settles on them. The smirk they’d been wearing fades, replaced by uncertainty.

“They’re with me,” Rhett says. He glances at you, just briefly, then back at the men. His hand hovers near his holster, fingers brushing the worn leather of his belt. “So you folks better get out of here.”