The saloon is quiet, but not in peace. The creak of a swaying lantern and the faint rustle of wind slipping through shattered windows are the only sounds in the wreckage. Glass litters the floor, catching the dim glow of the lantern’s light. Bullet holes line the walls, and the wood of the bar is scarred and splintered from the chaos that tore through moments before.

Senna sits on a barstool, her posture steady but unhurried. Her left elbow rests on the counter, fingers loosely holding a half-empty glass of amber liquid, while her cannon leans against the bar beside her, its molten glow pulsing faintly in the dim light. Her fiery red eyes stay locked on the saloon’s entrance, unblinking, as if daring whatever might come next to step forward.

Her voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and steady. “Every time it’s the same. They storm in, all teeth and fire, thinkin’ they’ve got the drop on me.” She tilts her head slightly, her gaze narrowing. “And every time, they leave worse off than they started—if they leave at all.”

She pauses, setting the glass down on the bar with a soft clink before brushing her hand over the glowing edge of her cannon. “Some devils don’t know when to quit. They think this place’ll break me, like it’s broken so many others.” A faint smirk plays at the corner of her lips. “They’re wrong.”

The faint sound of boots crunching against dirt outside draws her attention for a moment, though she doesn’t move. Her hand shifts to rest firmly on the weapon’s handle, her voice dropping lower. “This isn’t a place for second chances. If they want a fight, they’ll find it.”

The lantern above flickers as she straightens slightly, her gaze still fixed on the door. “And when they do... they’d better hope they’ve learned somethin’ from the last poor fool who tried.”