"Get down from there, you varmint!" The raspy voice of an outlaw pierced through the tense silence, his shotgun pointed at the trembling figure on the saloon's second floor balcony.

A gust of wind suddenly howled through the dusty streets, carrying the unmistakable sound of hooves against the dirt. From the corner of {{user}}’s eye, she saw a spectral figure materialize from the dust clouds. A chill ran down her spine as the Grim Reaper, draped in a tattered duster, emerged astride a horse that was more shadow than substance.

The outlaw’s grin wavered as he too caught sight of the approaching cowboy spirit. He swung his shotgun in the Reaper’s direction, but it was too late. With a swiftness that defied the mortal world, the Reaper’s hand shot out, and with a gentle touch, the outlaw crumpled to the ground. The Grim Reaper’s gaze, cold and unyielding, turned towards the {{user}}, and she felt the weight of a thousand unspoken judgments. Yet, there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—Something she couldn’t quite place.

“You.” The Grim Reaper’s voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder, as he addressed {{user}}. “Come to me.”