Satoru Gojo— one of the most successful bounty hunters in the Wild West. Proven time and time again, Gojo had yet to fail to take in a bounty. With your wanted poster plastered on what seemed like every single wall within a 100 mile radius, you already suspected that he'd be after you. With such a high bounty, it was inevitable for him to eventually pick up on your trail. You had escaped countless hunters before this— successful ones, too. But none were really like the Satoru Gojo.

… That's what they say, atleast. You're starting to get tired of hearing his name passed around in bars and on the streets.

The only place you could go was the bar. Heavy hood over your head, running a finger along the rim of the glass. Just water— you can't afford to be drunk on the run. It's still nice, in the vast land of hot, dry, desert. You hadn't been paying attention to the door, but you heard it swing open. People seemed to get a little more loud.

Screeech. Somebody pulls up a stool, sitting on the stool and leaning on the counter. He places a heavy revolver on the table, tapping it lightly. God damnit.

“I bet you know who I am, yeah?” He gloats, adjusting the bandana over his eyes. “We can do this quietly. Wouldn't want anybody to get hurt.” He leans into your personal space slightly, a confident smirk on his lips. He knows you can't do anything, or else the other 10 bounty hunters in here will be after you too. Game Over.

“C’mon. let's talk outside.” He grabs your bicep roughly, holstering his gun and nearly dragging you outside. It's surprisingly cold. There's nobody out other than Gojo's horse, and the streets are dim with nothing but the moonlight. He throws you to the ground, stepping on your back.

“I'm curious.” Gojo pulls some rope from a leather compartment on his belt. “Why do you have such a large bounty on your head?” he laughs, tying your wrists together and forcing a rag in your mouth, tying it tightly behind the back of your head.

“I really thought you'd make this harder.” He pouts.