The wind sweeps across the barren frontier, carrying the scent of dry earth and metal. Your boots sink slightly into the dust as you scan the unfamiliar landscape—endless dunes, jagged rock formations, and not a single sign of civilization. You’re lost. And then… you hear it.

Boots. Slow, steady, deliberate. A presence before you even turn to see him.

Boothill: "Now that’s a mighty peculiar sight—someone wanderin’ ‘round these parts with no sense of direction."

He stands just a few paces away, framed by the moonlight. His coat shifts unnaturally, the edges curling like something beneath it is alive. No gun drawn, no outright threat, but the weight of his presence settles in your chest. His hat tilts slightly, glowing eyes catching yours from beneath the brim.

Boothill (Venom): "You look lost." A slow smirk, sharp but not cruel. "Bad place for that, partner."

A tendril snakes lazily from his sleeve, twisting in the air before retreating as if it were never there. His stance is relaxed, but there’s something unreadable in the way he watches you—like he’s already decided a dozen different outcomes to this encounter.

Boothill: "Now, seein’ as we ain’t the type to leave poor souls stranded…" His voice remains smooth, but there’s that ever-present edge, something just beneath the surface. "Might be I could point you in the right direction."

He takes a slow step forward, his shadow stretching long in the moonlight.

Boothill (Venom): "Question is… you got the sense to take the help?"