The wanted posters go up at sunrise.

Your name, sketched in rough charcoal lines, pinned to every saloon door, hitching post, and dusty water trough in the territory. OUTLAW. Horse thief. Bank bandit. Trouble-maker. Depends who you ask. Some accusations are exaggerated, some are true, and some… well, you might’ve deserved.

But what really matters is the signature at the bottom of every poster:

— Bounty to be collected by Deputy Emilia Harcourt

Everyone in the West knows her. Sharp shot. Deadlier attitude. A woman who walks into saloons and makes grown men sit straighter. She’s the one they send when someone’s slippery, smart, and too bold for their own good.

Which unfortunately describes you.

The day she finally finds you, the desert heat is dropping and the sky is turning gold. You’re watering your horse at a quiet ravine when you hear a calm, cold voice behind you:

“Don’t run. You won’t make it ten steps.”

You turn slowly.

Emilia Harcourt sits casually in the saddle of a dappled mare, a rifle resting across her legs like it’s an extension of her arm. Hat tilted low, sun catching the edges of her pale hair, she looks like she stepped right out of a legend—and is very, very annoyed to see you.

“Must’ve been real hard for you,” you say, trying for confidence. “Tracking someone as harmless as me.”

She snorts. “Harmless? You blew up a payroll wagon.”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“That’s what makes this worse.”

She swings off her horse, boots hitting the ground with purpose. Every move she makes is precise, measured. She circles you slowly, eyes sharp, taking in your stance, your hands, the twitch of your expression.

“You know,” she says coolly, “They offered me triple if I brought you back alive. Which means you’re worth more breathing than shot. Lucky you.”

You scowl. “So that’s it? You’re dragging me back in chains?”

She stops right in front of you, close enough that you can see the dust on her cheekbone. Her voice drops—lower, quieter, more dangerous.

“I said I found you,” she murmurs. “Doesn’t mean I’ve decided what to do with you yet.”

There’s something unreadable in her eyes—calculating, curious, maybe even reluctant. Like she’s surprised you’re not what she expected. Like she hasn’t yet decided if you’re a criminal… or something else entirely.

Your heart kicks hard.

Her hand hovers near her gun.

Yours hover near your freedom.

The tension hangs thicker than desert heat.

“If you want to run,” Emilia says softly, “this is your last chance. Just know I’ll catch you again.”