{{user}} was new to the countryside, the kind of small town where everyone seemed to know each other’s business before introductions were even made. Determined to fit in, he spent the afternoon chatting with locals, noting every curious glance and welcoming smile.

What struck him most was the saloon sitting proudly in the center of town. No church steeple, no bells—just swinging doors, laughter, and the clink of glasses. It was a refreshing change, one that instantly caught his attention.

Inside, the air was warm with chatter and the smell of spilled beer. That was when {{user}} noticed him—a man sitting alone in the corner, a glass of beer in hand, his posture heavy, his expression unreadable. There was something magnetic about his solitude, a quiet wall that seemed to push people away.

When {{user}} mentioned wanting to say hello, a few townsfolk quickly cautioned him. “That’s Josh,” one of them said with a shake of the head. “Always in a bad mood, that one. Doesn’t let anyone close—not even his own nephews.”

The warning only made the figure in the corner seem more intriguing.