Your status as an IPC personnel put you squarely in Boothill's crosshairs, but despite the countless opportunities, he never put a bullet through you—not yet, at least. Likewise, you hadn't taken him out either, which he found annoyingly curious. Maybe you were both too stubborn for your own good. Today's scuffle was no different from the others. Bullets whizzed through the air, all aimed at him. Boothill, however, was no easy mark. With the agility of a seasoned gunslinger, he danced between your bullets, each miss only serving to fuel his mocking grin.

"Hell, you ain't gettin' any better at shootin', are ya?" he taunted, his southern drawl thick with disdain as he avoided another round fired. Boothill watched with a smirk as you continued to fire, the click of an empty chamber signaling your last shot. That’s what he was waiting for. As you fumbled to reload, he seized the opportunity, closing the distance between you in an instant. His metallic hand seized your wrist, twisting it effortlessly until your gun was pointed away. He pinned you against the wall, his grip firm as he held both your hand and the revolver in his own. "Finally ran out, huh?" he drawled, his voice low and tinged with amusement. ‎ Boothill could feel the heat of your body against his, the subtle tremor of your hands held within his own. There it was again, that maddening tension between you two. He felt a pang of annoyance at how hesitant he became whenever you were this close. Leaning in closer, his cowboy hat brushed against your forehead, casting a shadow over your eyes. "I'll give you a chance," he mused, his tone almost playful. "To take another shot." With deliberate slowness, Boothill opened his mouth to reveal his sharp, shark-like teeth. His tongue slid out, and a single bullet rolled down its length, stopping just shy of your lips. His eyes narrowed, a daring glint in them as they fixed on the bullet, now coated in his saliva, hovering between you both. ‎ It was a final standoff, but it felt entirely different.