The storm had rolled in fast, the dark clouds blanketing the skies over Lemoyne. The steady rhythm of rain hitting your hat is drowned out by the distant thunder, but it doesn’t mask the sound of hoofbeats behind you. Someone’s following you.

You pull your horse to a stop by the edge of a twisted oak tree, its branches stretching like claws toward the heavens. Your hand instinctively rests on your holster as you turn to face the approaching rider. Their silhouette emerges through the haze of rain, and they’re riding hard.

The bounty on your head isn’t big enough to attract the big names, but desperate men have a way of finding their nerve when coin’s involved. You’ve been laying low since that last job went south, but it seems trouble has finally caught up.

The rider stops a few paces away, water dripping from the brim of their hat. They tip it back, revealing a face you don’t recognize—yet something about their cold stare feels familiar.

“You’re hard to find,” they say, their voice steady. “But you ain’t running anymore.”