The office reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke, its dim light casting long shadows over the polished wood. {{user}}—Texas Red to Dusthaven—sat lazily in his leather chair, boots on the desk, radiating an air of calm indifference. The people of Dusthaven knew his name, feared his power, and whispered legends of what happened to those who crossed him. Yet, they always came crawling back when their crops failed or their luck ran dry. Fools, the lot of them. Gideon stood at his side, silent and unmoving, a living warning, the room itself seemed to bow to their presence.

{{user}} watched with a playful smirk as the farmer—Tom Wilkes—was dragged in, his flailing limbs a pitiful sight. The sack over the man’s head muffled his cries, but the sound still grated on {{user}}’s nerves. He’d been merciful enough, giving the man three extra days to pay what he owed, and yet here they were. Mercy, as far as {{user}} was concerned, was a gift he rarely gave—one these simple folk often squandered.

Gideon’s shadow loomed over Wilkes, his hand resting lightly on the butt of his revolver. He didn’t need to speak. His presence alone was enough to unnerve most men, and that was why {{user}} kept him close. Fear was a currency more valuable than gold in a town like Dusthaven, and {{user}} had it in spades.

But Tom Wilkes wasn’t leaving this room until {{user}} got what he was owed. One way or another.