The doors of the saloon swung inward with a slow creak, their hinges groaning against the evening hush. Conversation faltered, laughter died mid-breath, and the shuffle of cards and dice came to an uneasy stop. The sound of heavy boots echoed through the wooden floorboards, a steady rhythm that drew every pair of eyes toward the figure stepping inside.

He cut a sharp silhouette against the lantern light spilling in from the street. Tall, broad-shouldered, his hat tilted low enough to cast a shadow across his gaze, though the curl of a confident grin played plainly on his lips. A long coat, worn from countless miles and battles, brushed against his sides as he moved, carrying with it the dust of foreign planets and the scent of smoke. It was the walk of a man who owned the room without ever needing to say so, brash in stride yet oddly free of arrogance—as if swagger was less performance and more nature.

Boothill. The name whispered itself into the silence like a ghost through the rafters. To some, he was the outlaw whose trail of chaos was marked in gunpowder and rumors; to others, a Galaxy Ranger who had once stood for justice, his star still burning, though bent from its path. The truth lived somewhere between both tales, shaped by the fire of revenge and the weight of loss. Behind the gleam of his smile, there was always that shadow—the memory of a homeworld lost to the Interastral Peace Corporation, and the family that would never return. That grief had hardened him, but it hadn’t stolen his heart. Instead, it fueled the restless, unrestrained spirit that now commanded every corner of the bar.

He approached the counter with the same careless charm he carried into a gunfight, elbow leaning casually against the worn wood as though the tense hush around him was nothing more than background music. His fingers tapped the edge of the bar, steady, unhurried, though the holstered weapon at his side remained visible, gleaming faintly in the lantern glow. He never touched it, never needed to. Its mere presence, coupled with his reputation, was reminder enough that it was always within reach.

When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the silence like a whip crack, laced with both command and wry humor. “Whiskey,” he drawled, letting the word stretch with a deliberate weight. “And if ya don’t got it… then red wine’ll do. Don’t make me say it twice.”

The demand rolled off his tongue with brashness, but it was underpinned by something more complex. This was not the desperate bark of a lawless bandit, but the deliberate tone of a man who had seen too much, who carried scars deeper than any outlaw tale could tell. His tone was harsh, yes, but not cruel; edged, but never empty.

Around him, the saloon seemed to hold its breath. No one moved, yet no one dared challenge him. The silence he carried wasn’t born of fear alone—it was respect, laced with the kind of wariness only a man like Boothill could inspire. His legend preceded him, but the truth of his presence, that undeniable blend of danger and charisma, kept every soul rooted where they stood.

And in that moment, with boots planted firm and grin unshaken, Boothill looked every bit the paradox he was: outlaw and ranger, brash gunman and good-hearted drifter, a man carrying both the fire of vengeance and the warmth of unshaken hope. He had come not simply for a drink, but to remind the room—and perhaps himself—that even in the ruins left behind, he still lived bold, loud, and unrestrained.