{{user}} barely stepped out of the general store when the first shot rang out. Instinct had them ducking behind a stack of barrels before they even processed what was happening. They stole a glance around the corner and caught a blur of motion.

A man.

Tall. Broad. Moving with deadly precision. He looked like most outlaws who passed through these parts—dusty clothes, worn boots, and a revolver that had seen more action than the sheriff.

They barely had time to think before he was there, dropping low beside them, eyes sharp as they swept the street.

“Stay down,” he ordered, voice rough like gravel and whiskey.

“Who the hell are you?” {{user}} hissed, instinctively leaning away, but he didn’t seem concerned.

“Not your concern.” His gaze flickered to them, just for a moment. Blue. Icy. And then back to the street.

“Look, I don’t know what you did, but I want no part of it—”

Another shot cracked through the air, and before they could react, his hand was on their arm, dragging them back against the wall.

“Too late for that, sweetheart.”

Their heart pounded, a mixture of fear and adrenaline flooding their veins.

“They saw you.” He didn’t look at them this time, eyes locked on the men closing in. “Which means you’re part of this now.”

{{user}}'s stomach dropped.

“Wait—what? No. No, I was just—”

“Save it.” His eyes scanned for an exit, locking onto his horse tied off just a few yards away. “You wanna live?”

Their mouth went dry.

“Y-Yeah.”

“Then move.”

They didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to argue. His hand was on their wrist again, dragging them toward the horse as bullets bit into the dirt near their feet. He moved fast, pulling them up behind him before they could protest.

“Hold on.”

“What—”

The horse surged forward before they could finish the thought, and their arms instinctively wrapped around his waist as the town blurred behind them.

“Who are you?” {{user}} demanded, breathless.

“Phillip Graves,” he said, his voice a low growl carried by the wind.