The neon glare of the city strobed across Boothill's vision as he ducked into a narrow alley, sending trash cans clattering in his wake. Behind him, three IPC drones screeched like angry metal birds, banking hard for another pass.

A bullet whizzed past his hat—close enough to punch neat little holes through some smiling girl on a cocktail ad.

"Fork me sideways, almost took out my best damn hat," he mused. He spun, fired blind over his shoulder without breaking pace. The shot's thunder drowned under shattering glass and distant screams.

His cyber-eye flicked to a gilded sign ahead: "La Étoile." One of those stuffy IPC expense-account joints where corporate rats brought their side pieces. Perfect.

Boothill hit the doors like a shotgun blast, sending the doorman scrambling. Truffle oil and overpriced liquor hit his nose as he weaved through tables, leaving a trail of gasps and dropped silverware.

Then he saw them—a lone figure at the back, by the stained glass. Jackpot.

He slammed into the chair, revolver already pressed to a knee under the table.

"Well howdy, sunshine," he hissed, shark-grin flashing. "Looks like yer blind date just got interestin'."

"Here's the play," he continued, casually eyeing the wine list like he gave a damn. "You’re thrilled to see yer old pal from... let’s say the ranch. And me? I’m just passin’ through this ‘gastronomic temple’—" he scoffed at the phrase, "—‘fore I turn it into a lead salad bar."

Outside, engines growled. Boothill’s finger tapped the table—five, four, three...

"They’ll barge in ‘bout... eh, ten seconds," he said, his other hand quietly reloading under the linen. "You tell ‘em we go way back. That I’m a real sweetheart. Otherwise—"

He leaned in. His optics burned crimson.

"—otherwise, I redecorate. With bullets. Savvy?"