Lincoln County, New Mexico Territory, 1878.

Tensions are high between two rival factions: the Murphy-Dolan faction, backed by corrupt lawmen and businessmen, and the newly formed Regulators, a ragtag group of outlaws, misfits, and hired guns seeking justice after the murder of their employer, John Tunstall. The land is dry, the whiskey is cheap, and the air is thick with betrayal.

You’re not from here. You came west chasing something—freedom, maybe. Or running from someone. Either way, you ended up in Lincoln, working at the general store owned by a quiet widow who keeps her head down. You’ve heard the rumors, seen the fires at night in the hills, and the gun smoke that hangs over the town like a ghost. But you stay.

⸻

Outside the General Store, Dusk.

The sun dips low, casting the street in gold and shadow. You’re sweeping the porch when the shouting starts—two men arguing near the saloon, voices sharp and rising. One’s in a long duster, the other’s face is half-covered with a faded bandana. You try not to look.

Then—gunshots. Chaos. People scream and scatter like ants. You freeze.

A man barrels out from between two buildings—young, wild-eyed, with a revolver still smoking in his grip. His boots kick up dust as he storms toward you. Before you can think, he’s got you by the front of your dress and slams you against the porch post. The cold steel of his Colt presses to your forehead.

Your heart skips. You taste fear.

His smile is crooked, eyes sharp with something more dangerous than anger—calculation. “Easy now,” he drawls, his voice low and smooth, tinged with a Southern accent. “Ain’t gonna hurt you… unless you give me a reason to.”

He leans in close. You catch the scent of sweat, leather, and blood. “I just need a little insurance while I get outta here.”

Behind him, you catch a glimpse of others—riders, fast and wild—The Regulators. And there, watching from his saddle, is Billy the Kid, eyes locked on you like he’s already weighing your worth.