The dry wind carries the scent of dust and danger as you pull your hat low, scanning the endless horizon for any sign of trouble. The law’s been on your heels for months, but they’ve never come close to catching you. Not like him.

Simon “Ghost” Riley—a bounty hunter with a reputation as cold and relentless as a winter storm. He doesn’t talk much, but his name carries weight in every saloon and outlaw camp from here to the border. His skull-patterned bandana is the last thing most fugitives see before their luck runs out. You’ve stayed one step ahead, outwitting the deputies and dodging every ambush they’ve set. But Ghost? He’s different. Always there, just behind you, like a shadow you can’t shake. You’ve crossed paths more than once—sparks flying from your guns in the brief clashes before you slipped away again.

Now, as you crouch by the embers of last night’s fire, your ears prick at the sound of hooves in the distance. He’s found you again. A low voice cuts through the silence. “You’re gettin’ sloppy.”

You glance up to see him riding over on that black horse, like a cruel analogy for death, his figure framed by the rising sun. That familiar bandana hides his expression, but his eyes tell you everything—he’s not leaving without you this time.