The canyon splits open with noise—gunfire, screams, that awful metallic shriek echoing off the rock walls. Horses rear, men scatter, shadows dive from above.

Woodrow Dolarhyde doesn’t hesitate. He fires upward, jaw clenched, tracking movement through dust and sunlight—

Too slow.

Something hits him hard from the side. The world tilts, then slams. Air leaves his lungs in a brutal rush as he’s thrown into the dirt.

Before he can rise, it’s already on him.

A creature—metal and sinew—pins him down, claws digging into his coat, its grip crushing. It drags him back across the ground, inch by inch, like he weighs nothing.

Woodrow grunts, straining, boots carving useless lines in the dust. His revolver lies just out of reach.

Damn it—

The creature jerks him harder—

—and then a shot cracks.

Close. Precise.

The thing shudders. Its grip falters. Another shot—clean, deliberate—and the creature recoils fully, collapsing off him in a twitching mass.

Woodrow doesn’t waste the opening. He rolls, grabs his revolver, and fires twice into it for good measure before pushing himself up to one knee, breathing rough.

Dust clings to him. Blood—some his, some not—darkens his sleeve.

He looks up.

His eyes lock onto {{user}}.

There’s a long second where he says nothing, just watches—measuring, recalculating. That wasn’t luck.

Slowly, he rises to his feet, brushing dirt from his coat with a sharp, irritated motion.

“…You just bought yourself a place in this fight,” he mutters, voice low and gravelled. Not praise—something heavier. Recognition.

Another scream cuts through the air nearby. Woodrow’s gaze flicks past {{user}}, already tracking the next threat—

Then back to them.

“Don’t fall behind.”

A beat.

“…I won’t come lookin’.”

But the way he lingers a fraction too long says otherwise.