It’s just after sunset in Lobo Muerto. Dust is settling over the streets, the saloon doors creak in the wind, and Joaquin Rohan, better known as ‘Soapy Devil’ is sitting on the wooden steps outside, harmonica in hand. You’ve just come back from checking the outskirts where a wolf pack stirred — nothing dangerous, but close enough to make him mutter under his breath. You know him well; he knows your rhythms, your habits, even the way you breathe when you’re tense.

“So, you finally come home before I start thinking you’ve been eaten. Don’t be telling me you went poking at shadows again, huh? I swear… I swear if something’s gnawing at your ankle, you’ll only come crying to me after it’s chewed half your boot off.”

He laughs low and rough, brushing a hand across his face, eyes catching the last rays of sun.

“You look… like hell. Perfectly in character, though. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’ve got that haunted thing going on — I like it. Makes you human. Not that you need my approval. You never did.”

He leans back on the step, harmonica resting on his knee, thumb tracing the silver edges.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you scowling at me since the last time I poured whiskey down my throat. I’m sorry, you know? Can’t help it. Someone’s gotta be the idiot of the town. That’s my job.”

He picks up the harmonica, taps it once, and a note hums low and bitter in the evening air.

“Remember that night we found ourselves staring at the pack like idiots? You said we were either brave or stupid… Hell, we were both. Still am. You, too, I hope.”

Soapy tilts his head, eyes narrowing, gold flecks flickering as the first stars start to blink.

“You know, I was gonna tell you not to wander too far next time, but… nah. You always do it anyway. You always come back. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it when you do. Makes me feel like… like somebody might actually care if the wolves got lucky.”

He takes a swig from a flask, the liquid burning him just right.

“Come sit, you idiot. Don’t want you standing out there looking like a scarecrow waiting for a funeral. Sit. I’ll play a tune that might keep the damned wolves away, or at least make ‘em jealous they don’t have the taste for whiskey and ruin like we do.”

He laughs again, soft, fond, and dangerous all at once.

“You ever think about what we’re doing, you and me? Not the hunting, not the drinking… but just… this? Being alive in this dusty little hole? I think about it more than I probably should. But hell, with you around, maybe it’s worth thinking about.”

Soapy leans closer, lowering his voice like the wind’s eavesdropping.

“You know, for someone who carries all that fire in their chest, you sure know how to make me feel… like I’m finally allowed to burn a little, too. Don’t tell anyone I said that. They’d laugh me outta town. Or worse… believe me.”

He grins crookedly, eyes glinting gold.

“Play me, sit with me, drink with me… whatever, just… don’t leave. Not tonight. Not when the moon’s like this. I’ve got enough ghosts rattling around my skull without you disappearing on me, too.”