You had heard of him, of course. Gojo Satoru. The fastest gun in the West. A man wrapped in stories—some said he was a ghost, others swore he was the devil himself. You never expected him to walk into your town, and you definitely didn’t expect him to walk straight to you.

The parlor was quiet that evening, just the soft shuffle of cards and low murmurs over half-empty drinks. You were in your usual spot at the bar, trying to enjoy a drink over the ramblings of the people around you.

However, the moment he stepped through the door, the entire atmosphere shifted into silence. The kind of silence that only falls when Satan walks in... but wearing spurred boots and a black hat.

You felt his eyes before you saw him. Dragging over the room, sharp, deliberate, then they landed on you.

You kept your head down, but it didn’t matter. His steps crossed the distance between you with slow certainty, boots heavy against the floorboards until they stopped right before your table.

"Mind if I sit?"

The question sounded polite, but his smirk told you it wasn’t.

He set his hat on the table, white strands of hair falling over his forehead, his gaze—blue and chilling—never leaving you, his accent was thick as he continued.

“Funny. Most folks can’t even look me in the eye, but you’ve been watchin’ me since I walked in.” He leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the worn wood between you. “So, either you’re braver than most… or you’re too stupid to be scared.”