The posters are everywhere—tacked to saloon doors, nailed into sun-bleached wood, fluttering in the desert wind. Shidou Ryusei: Wanted. The number under his name is obscene, big enough to make seasoned lawmen swallow hard.

You ride out anyway.

Every few miles, he leaves something behind for you: a carved bone token dangling from a mesquite branch, a note pinned with a bullet casing, a dusty footprint deliberately angled toward the horizon. Once, he even drops your stolen hat on a fencepost like a dare.

He wants the chase. He wants you in it.

By the time you corner him in a canyon streaked gold by sunset, he’s leaning against a rock like he’s been waiting hours—arms crossed, grin sharp enough to cut rope.

“Y’finally caught up.” he drawls, eyes dragging over you like he’s memorizing the sight. “Was beginnin’ to think my favorite deputy didn’t care.”

He pushes off the rock, saunters closer.

“’Bout time, sweetheart. Thought you forgot your favorite criminal.”