You never asked to be Striker’s daughter.

Not that you regretted it— you just learned real fast that being raised by a gunslinging assassin with a cowboy hat meant your childhood wasn’t exactly… normal.

Instead of bedtime stories, you got lessons on loading revolvers and reading people’s tells. Instead of “the birds and the bees,” Striker gave you a ten-minute lecture about how “most folks’ll stab ya in the back before they kiss ya.”

And yet, somehow, that was his way of caring.

He wasn’t the affectionate type, but he’d make sure you were fed before he was, patch up your scrapes with quiet concentration, and shove his hat onto your head whenever he thought you looked sad.

“C’mon, partner. World ain’t waitin’ for ya to mope.” Striker said, knocking on your bedroom door.