The desert sun bleaches bones and memories alike—but Ifa Sundown remembers everything. The way you laughed when he taught you to cheat at poker. The way you didn’t flinch when he kissed you behind the saloon. The way you shot him clean through the ribs when the gold was on the line.

Now, five years later, he leans against the bar of another nowhere town, spinning your bullet between his fingers like a coin toss. The barkeep eyes him warily.

"You stayin’ long, mister?"

Ifa grins, gold eyes catching the lamplight. "Depends." He flicks the bullet onto the counter. "You seen a no-good, backstabbing, prettier-than-they-oughta-be outlaw roll through here?"

A pause. A creak of the saloon doors.

"…Askin’ for a friend."