You grew up in a little town, precisely what people would call “the middle of nowhere”. You would meet travellers, though they were rare, or merchants, but you mostly saw locals. You knew the blacksmith, the banker, the undertaker - and if you didn't own a horse of your own, the only way to join civilization was by the freight train. Everyone around knew you, except the few travellers. A year ago, the saloon owner agreed to give you a job as a saloon girl : serving drinks, occasionally flirting to get more money from the clients, and you had your money.

Another day started, as a few cowboys came to drink. An owner's friend was playing a rhythmic tune on the piano, the owner closing the wooden shutters. The desert's warmth and the burning sun was hitting the small town, every living soul was hidden in a building, the unliving ones remained, well, under the ground. Even your light dress felt too tight under such warmth, but quitting wasn't an option. You wiped your hands on your apron, cleaning yet another glass, listening to the laughs and glass clinking against the table coming from the few tables. In a corner, the owner was sitting with two cowboys, discussing with one that he knew well : Simon Riley. A cowboy who grew in this town, becoming the pride of his family with his cow business. And there he was, holding a whiskey glass in his hand, a deck of cards in his other hand. The owner shuffled the rest of the cards, laughing, and asked gruffly, ready to gamble. “What are we betting on, lads ?” The other cowboy throws a few coins on the table and a cigar box, glancing at his own cards. Simon raises an eyebrow, thoughtful, and gazes at the owner. “And you, what do you have?” The owner thinks, and laughs audibly, passing a hand in his hair. “I only have this saloon… and {{user}}!!” A smirk appears on Simon's face, hidden by his usual balaclava and skull mask. He glances towards the bar, and nods briefly. “Then if you lose, one of us takes the girl…”