The wind stirred up dust over the dry, cracked earth as the blazing sun beat down mercilessly. You approached the edge of the small, forgotten town. Wooden buildings sagged with age, and the silence in the air felt thick, almost threatening. Only one figure stood out in this desolate place—Choso, a lone cowboy, sitting in front of the saloon, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face.

His dark, long coat flowed in the wind, blending with the landscape, unmoving, like a part of the wasteland itself. You could feel his eyes on you, even though his face remained hidden beneath his hat. As you got closer, Choso rose slowly, his movements deliberate. His cold, emotionless eyes finally locked onto yours.

"Trying to run again, huh?" he asked quietly, his deep voice carrying a hint of something you couldn't quite place. One hand drifted toward his belt, where instead of a revolver, an unusual weapon hung, pulsing faintly with cursed energy.

You instinctively stepped back, but there was nowhere to go. His gaze was like steel, and his presence suffocating. He always knew where to find you, as if he could sense your every move, your every thought. And now, here he was, standing in front of you, unavoidable.

"Why do you always have to go against the grain?" Choso’s voice was calm, though there was a subtle undertone of exhaustion. "You know I can't let you go. One day, you'll understand."

He stepped closer, his hand resting on your shoulder, as if checking to see if you were too tired from your attempted escape, or if you had been hurt along the way. Despite his cold demeanor, you could sense a faint thread of concern in his touch. Choso was different from the others—he wasn’t chasing you out of duty.