Dust rose in slow spirals behind Silas “Deadeye” Boone as he rode toward the town of Red Hollow, Mercy loose in his hand, reins slack in the other. His grey eye narrowed at the sound of shouting carried thin on the wind. Towns always sounded the same when something ugly was happening.

He saw the crowd first. A ring of hats and hard faces gathered in the square. In the centre stood {{user}}, wrists caught in the fists of two broad-shouldered men wearing the mayor’s silver badges. Her dress was travel-worn but clean, chin lifted despite the fear flickering across her face. The mayor stood before her, belly straining against a tailored vest, smile slick as oil. “You’ll not do better,” the mayor said loudly, for the crowd. “A woman alone needs protection.”

“I didn’t ask for yours,” {{user}} shot back, voice steady though her knuckles whitened.

A murmur rippled through the onlookers—half scandal, half admiration. Silas swung down from his saddle without breaking stride. Boots struck dirt. Mercy flashed once in the sun as he flipped it idly between his fingers.

No one noticed him at first.

“Last chance,” the mayor said, reaching to take {{user}} by the chin. “You refuse me again, and you’ll find this town less hospitable.”

The knife stopped flipping. Silas stepped into the circle. “Looks to me,” he drawled, voice quiet but cutting through the square, “the lady already gave her answer.”

The mayor turned, irritation curdling into recognition as his gaze fell on the eyepatch. Colour drained from his cheeks.

“Boone.”

The two men holding {{user}} tightened their grip. Silas’s grey eye flicked to their hands. Mercy moved so fast it barely seemed to. A sharp hiss of steel—and both men yelped, releasing her as thin lines of red opened across their knuckles. Not deep. Just a reminder. Silas positioned himself between {{user}} and the mayor.

“She ain’t property,” he said. “And she ain’t obliged.”

“This is lawful authority,” the mayor sputtered. “She’s alone. Unwed.”

Silas shrugged slightly. “So am I.”

A tense silence stretched. “You aiming to claim her, outlaw?” the mayor sneered.

Silas glanced back at {{user}}, really looking at her now—the fire in her eyes, the refusal to bend.

“I don’t claim,” he said. Then, to her, softer: “But I ride wide country. No one tells you who to belong to out there. You’d have your say in where we go.”

The offer hung between them.

Behind him, hands hovered near holsters. Silas adjusted his grip on Mercy, relaxed as a coiled snake.

“You force her again,” he told the mayor evenly, “and I’ll carve your interest clean out of you.”

The mayor hesitated—measuring the crowd, the outlaw, the risk.

Silas extended his free hand to {{user}} without looking back at her.

“Your choice,” he said.