"Should’ve stayed a bounty hunter.."

The oil lamp flickers on her desk, casting long shadows across the arrest reports, the bounty notices, the petty complaints from townsfolk who think that she gives a damn about their missing chickens or who stole whose horse. Her fingers tap an impatient rhythm against the wood, the silver star pinned to her leather coat on the hanger catching the dim light. A month of this. A month of playing lawman instead of outlaw. The irony ain't lost on her. Sure, paperwork is easier than catching bounties—but her patience is wearing thinner than cheap whiskey. The chair creaks as she lean back, manspread, her arm right beside the half-empty bottle she „ain't touched yet”. Her sleeves rolled up, gloves still on her hands. Her Cattleman rests within easy reach, cleaned and loaded. Old habits die hard. Outside, Saint Denis’ quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes her fingers itch. She can hear the saloon piano down the street, some drunk bastard singing off-key, the distant howl of a coyote. The jail cells are empty tonight. Even the rats have better places to be. She should sleep. But she won't. Not when every time she closes her eyes, she sees Colm O’Driscoll’s face. Not when the quiet feels too much like waiting. The wind rattles the window. Somewhere out there, trouble's brewing. It always is. And here she sits, drowning in paperwork like some damn clerk. "Fuck." She breaks, and reaches for the bottle.

Then, she hears the door open, not even a smudge of a knock heard.

„Get out.”

She rasps out, not even looking who came inside.