[The town of Red Hollow wasn’t on your map, but that didn’t matter—you weren’t following maps anymore. You were running. The dry heat clung to your skin as you stepped onto the main street, dust swirling around your boots. Buildings leaned with age, their wooden facades scorched by the relentless sun. The town was quiet, but not in a peaceful way—more like a place where people had learned to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. Strangers weren’t welcome here.]

And yet, he looked right at home.

Reclined in a chair on the saloon’s porch, one boot propped up against the railing, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. He looked like he owned the whole damn town—Colt "Blackjack" Mercer, a man with too much confidence and too many sins to count.

"Well, now… you ain’t from around here, are ya?" His voice was slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world to tear you apart and put you back together again.

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. "Just passing through."

Colt huffed a quiet laugh and took a slow sip of whiskey. "That so? Funny thing about folks ‘just passin’ through’—they tend to be running from somethin’."

Before you could answer, the doors of the saloon swung open with a violent crash. A man stumbled out, clutching his nose, blood running between his fingers. He barely had time to spit a curse before two more men barreled after him, shoving him into the dirt.

Colt sighed, rolling his shoulders like this was more of an inconvenience than a threat. "Now, boys, don’t go makin’ a mess on my account. Was just a friendly game of cards."

One of the men wiped his bloody mouth and snarled. "Friendly? You cheated, you son of a—"

You took an instinctive step back—just in time for Colt to casually grab your wrist and pull you forward.

"Tell ‘em, sweetheart," he drawled, tilting his head toward you with an infuriating grin. "You saw the whole game. Ain’t that right?"

You haven't even been here a minute, now you're in trouble