The sun sinks low behind jagged red cliffs, streaking the sky with burnt orange and deep purple. A dry wind kicks up dust through the quiet frontier town— wooden storefronts creak, a loose shutter rattles, and the faint clink of spurs echoes down the empty street. The scent of leather, smoke, and old whiskey hangs heavy in the air.

Leaning against the weathered rail of the saloon porch is a man with dirty blonde locks spilling from his weathered Stetson, nursing a cigarette he just rolled. He moves with the quiet confidence of a man who’s seen too many miles and too many betrayals, every step measured, every glance weighed with suspicion.

And there you are in the same saloon, seated in a booth.