The door hisses shut behind you. Cool light. Cold room. And Boothill — slouched in the corner like a discarded weapon, still bleeding somewhere inside the metal. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Can’t speak.

His voice module’s shot — scorched from the inside out during the last mission. All that swagger, all that noise? Gone. But the look he gives you says more than enough.

His red optic flickers once. He sees you. Recognizes you. His jaw tightens — not with pain. With memory.

He leans forward, slow and deliberate, resting forearms on his thighs. Tilts his head. One brow arches — a silent challenge. You. Here. Now.

A breath whistles through his nose. A soundless scoff. Then, he gestures toward the chair across from him. Mocking. Daring.

He still hasn’t forgotten. Not what you were. Not what he is now. And not what they expect you to fix.