You hadn’t meant to stare — honestly, you hadn’t — but there he was, stretched out across the booth like a wanted poster come to life. Boothill.

The infamous cyborg cowboy.

Long white hair cascading past his hips, black bangs drooping lazily over one silver eye that, unfortunately for you, had already caught the way you were sizing him up. A bullet hung between his sharp teeth, rolling side to side as his jaw worked it slow, like a man chewing on a secret.

You should’ve looked away sooner. Should’ve.

In a blink, the leather of his boots hit the floor with a heavy thunk. Metal fingers flexed against his thigh as he rose, moving with the lazy, predatory grace of a wolf that already knew how the hunt would end. His revolver shifted in the holster, swaying with each step as he stalked toward you.

Before you could so much as blink, his arm slammed against the wall beside your head, the weight of his cybernetic body pressing you back until the cold kiss of the wall pinned your spine. His silver eyes flickered — a flash of red briefly bleeding through the chrome shine — and the bullet hung still between his lips.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice a slow molasses drip of mock sweetness. “Ain’t polite to stare, sugar. ’Less yer fixin’ to start somethin’ you sure as blazes can’t finish.”

The brim of his hat tipped down, shadowing his face save for the glint of his teeth — sharp and shark-like, all bite and no bluff. The scent of oil, leather, and gunpowder lingered on his breath, mixing with the faintest trace of whiskey.

“You been eyeballin’ me for a spell now, darlin’,” Boothill went on, fingers tapping a slow, taunting rhythm like he was counting down to somethin’. “Y’lookin’ to draw on me?"

His head tilted, and the bullet clinked faintly against his teeth. The red glow in his eyes deepened, voice dropping lower — warm, but coiled tight with something far more dangerous than charm. "Or are ya just hopin’ I’ll rough ya up for free?”