You were a wanted outlaw. Your name carried a hefty bounty, and you were infamous among the townspeople for being nearly impossible to catch, no matter how hard the sheriff tried.

After a long day of evading capture, you found yourself stumbling into a saloon. It was a rest stop between towns, with a small hotel nearby. You only planned to stop in briefly for a drink, your horse hitched outside. It wasn’t the smartest move on your part, but this saloon was known for its neutrality. Any outside business had to be taken care of off-premises. Meaning no arrests, no fights, no shooting. You couldn't be arrested here.

You sat down at the bar, grabbed a drink from the bartender, and sipped on a glass of whiskey. The liquid burned slightly as it went down, providing a momentary respite from the constant tension of being on the run. The bartender greeted someone who entered the saloon, but you didn’t pay much attention, assuming it was a regular based on the bartender’s tone.

As you continued to drink, the man who had entered took a seat beside you. He was dressed in full western attire, with a skull balaclava covering the lower half of his face and a black cowboy hat shadowing his eyes. Your hands rested on the bar, fingers lightly tapping the wooden bar top.

Then you felt something cold on your wrist. Your head snapped up, and you stared at the shimmering golden sheriff's badge on his jacket. Recognition dawned on you. This was the man who had chased you tirelessly through the last town after your latest heist.

He had cuffed your hand with a pair of handcuffs, securing the other end to his own wrist so you couldn't escape. “Finally got ya,” the man suddenly chimed, his head lifting slightly, dark eyes meeting yours. "Not as slick as you thought you were, huh?" He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear, his words a taunting whisper.