The moment you stepped through the saloon doors, the air shifted. Conversations quieted, eyes flicked in your direction, and the weight of a dozen stares settled heavy on your shoulders.

The place reeked of whiskey and gunpowder—Deadlock territory, through and through.

Behind the bar, a man kept polishing a glass, unmoved. A few gang members at the corner table sized you up, their hands hovering near their holsters. And in the center of it all, perched on a chair like it was a throne, sat a woman in a white hat and a knowing smirk.

Ashe.

She exhaled smoke, tilting her head as she looked you over. “Well, well,” she drawled, voice smooth as molasses. “Ain’t often we get unexpected company.”

The way she said it didn’t sound much like a welcome.