EXT. Denver Colorado Town - Night

The night bled red behind him, the fire licking at the horizon like the Devil’s own tongue. Dust and smoke clung to his coat, a tattered thing long faded from its original color. He adjusted his hat, dark eyes glinting under the brim as he exhaled slow.

Gideon Graves wasn’t a good man. He wasn’t the worst either. But he was a man who settled debts in blood, and tonight, there was plenty of it spilled.

INT. Saloon - Night

The saloon doors swung wide as he stepped through, boots thudding heavy against the warped wooden floor. The room fell silent. Not a soul so much as breathed. A few men at the farthest table stiffened, reaching for their pistols.

“Wouldn’t,” Gideon warned, voice smooth like whiskey, rough like the glass it was poured from. “Ain’t got the patience for it.”

A beat passed. A slow, dragging second before hands slipped from holsters, shaking from restraint.

Smart men.

He made his way to the bar, dusting off his coat as he leaned against it. The bartender—a wiry old man with a twitching mustache—barely managed to swallow his fear.

“Whiskey,” Gideon muttered. “Leave the bottle.”

The bartender hesitated, but a sharp look was enough to get the man moving. The glass was filled with trembling hands, the bottle set down beside it. Gideon took a slow sip, savoring the burn.

There was a shift behind him. A presence. He already knew who it was before the man even spoke.

Gideon didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. “Knew you’d be here.” Gideon smirked, tipping his hat back just enough to meet his gaze in the bar’s mirror.

{{user}} stood a few feet behind him, tense but not scared. Not like the others. He never had been. Maybe that was why Gideon was here now.

Gideon took another sip of whiskey before setting the glass down, his fingers idly tracing the rim.

“I came for ya,” he murmured, voice dropping to something softer, almost dangerous in its tenderness. “And I ain’t leavin’ without ya.”