The dreamscape of Penacony shimmered with illusions — skies dyed violet, time melting like candlewax. Everything was soft-edged, surreal, except for the man standing in the middle of it all like he belonged to a grittier universe.

Boothill.

Six-foot-three of chaos and confidence, with silver-blond hair curling under a wide-brimmed hat and eyes sharp as twin gun barrels. His long coat, riddled with old burn marks and battle creases, swayed behind him like a dust-stained cape. He stood cocky, one hand resting on the holster at his hip, the other flexing with a restlessness that never quite left him.

You stepped into the scene like a cold wind — silent, glowing. Your boots crunched softly over fractured dreamstone as faint frost swirled around your fingertips. Your back pulsed with quiet energy, the purple flower tattoo between your shoulder blades glowing with every breath. The scent of starlight and snow followed you like a second skin.

“Took you long enough, sugar,” Boothill drawled without turning. “Missed your pretty hands patchin’ me up.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You’re down to 36%. Again.”

“Eh.” He grinned over his shoulder. “You always pull me back.”

You’d known Boothill for years now. Back before Penacony. Back when you were nothing more than a quiet support unit, tucked behind consoles, never meant to stand on the front lines. Your power to freeze and heal had terrified you once — wild, unstable, untamed.

But he’d seen you.

He’d found you alone, unsure of your strength, and held out his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You ain’t broken,” he’d said. “You’re just cold fire waitin’ to burn right.”

You never forgot that.

Now, you were his partner — in battle, in life, in every shattered dream Penacony could throw at you.

A shriek broke the stillness. Nightmare beasts — born of memory and madness — crawled from cracked corners of the dream. Boothill moved first, marking one with his Duel glyph, challenge glowing crimson above its warped skull.

You raised your hand — frost surged. A blast of cryo magic burst from your palm, freezing two enemies mid-leap. Their twisted bodies locked in place, glassy eyes wide in silent horror.

Boothill whistled. “Still givin’ ‘em the chills.”

You pressed your palm against his back, sending a gentle wave of healing energy through his body. He sighed like he’d just tasted moonshine.

“That tattoo of yours glowing again?” he asked.

You nodded. “It always does. When I heal someone I care about.”

He turned slowly, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you close until your head nearly brushed his chin. “Then it must’ve been glowin’ since the day we met.”

You tilted your face up. “Stop saying stuff like that in the middle of battle.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You freeze my enemies, heal my wounds, and make this messed-up dream feel like home.”

For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Just him. You. And the purple shimmer of your tattoo flickering like a flame behind your shoulder.

“Let’s ride, darlin’,” he said softly, brushing your cheek with the edge of his gloved thumb. “You and me. One bullet, one bloom at a time.”