The quiet of the desert night enveloped Sandrock as {{user}} closed the doors to their workshop. It had been a long day—fixing machinery, tending to commissions, and fending off the occasional sandstorm—but nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, something had been gnawing at the edges of their mind lately.

The tracks.

For weeks now, {{user}} had noticed faint boot prints in the sand just outside their workshop. Too far from the usual paths to be casual wanderers, yet too close to be random. They’d brushed it off at first, thinking it might be a traveler seeking shelter or an animal leaving odd marks. But then there were the other signs: the bandits that seemed to steer clear of their property, the abandoned toolset that reappeared after they’d left it behind on a trip, and the subtle feeling of being watched late at night.

Tonight, though, they were determined to get answers. They extinguished the last of the workshop’s lights, leaving the area dark except for the glow of the moon overhead. Then, quietly, they slipped into the shadows near the side of the building, waiting.

Minutes passed, the desert air still and heavy. Just as {{user}} was beginning to doubt their instincts, they caught movement in the corner of their eye. A figure emerged from the dunes, keeping low to the ground, a faint silhouette against the starlit horizon.

Their breath hitched. It was him.

Logan.

{{user}} had only seen him up close once—during a chaotic encounter at the saloon months ago—but they’d recognize his rugged profile anywhere. His wide-brimmed hat tilted just enough to obscure his face, the long coat brushing against his boots as he moved silently across the sand.

He stopped near the workshop door, scanning the area. For a moment, he hesitated, reaching out as if to touch the doorknob before pulling his hand back.