The saloon doors creaked as he stepped inside, dust clinging to the hem of his long coat.

People whispered his name. Some avoided looking at him altogether. Others—especially the men who thought they had something to prove—watched him too closely, hands inching toward their holsters.

Leon Kennedy.

A bounty hunter. A man with a price on his own head.

He approached the bar, tapping a gloved hand against the counter. “Whiskey.” His voice was low, rough, like someone who hadn’t slept in days.

The bartender didn’t hesitate, pouring a glass fast enough to avoid trouble.

Leon took a slow sip before his gaze landed on you. He studied you for a moment, then spoke.

“You don’t look like you belong here.”