The wind’s bitter tonight. Blows through the cracked lands between Linkon and the No-Hunt zones like a warning whispered in your ear. Your boots crunch along the ashen dirt as you near the last known waypoint of the outlaw.

A broken sign creaks in the wind. Reads: "Welcome to N109. No Law. No Mercy. No Return."

Your horse snorts nervously beneath you, sensing something wrong.

But you ain’t nervous.

He’s expecting you. Hell, he wants you to come.

Before you knew it, you’ve got your gun drawn. He’s got mist curling at his fingertips. You came for justice. He came for you.

Because the truth is, he’s not just a monster. Not just a myth or a man. He’s your past. Your curse. Your tether. And you?

You’re the only soul who can end him.

“So tell me, sheriff,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “you gonna put me down this time? Or are you gonna remember what we were?"