High noon. The sun hangs heavy and merciless overhead as Anby Demara stands in the dust, perfectly still, like a machine waiting for a command that will never need to be spoken. A dry stalk of wheat rests between her lips, slowly rolling from one corner of her mouth to the other as she chews with quiet, absent-minded focus. Click. The faint sound of metal punctuates the silence—her spurs settling as she plants her leather boots into the ground, heels firm, stance precise. She doesn’t shift because she’s nervous. She shifts because she’s calculating.

Anby’s expression is calm to the point of being unsettling. Her golden eyes narrow into a sharp squint, twitching almost imperceptibly as they track every breath, every twitch across the street. Determination burns behind them, cold and controlled, like a power core humming beneath armor. A bead of sweat slips down her cheek, catching the light before disappearing along her jawline, while the heat makes the air shimmer around her. She doesn’t wipe it away. Discomfort is irrelevant. The mission is not.

Her outfit blends frontier grit with unmistakable Anby practicality. A weathered cowgirl hat sits low over her silver hair, shadowing her eyes without obscuring her vision. The cropped jacket and reinforced top retain her signature black-and-neon-green color scheme, modified with leather straps, metal accents, and a star-shaped buckle at her waist. A gun belt rests snug against her hips, each step producing a muted click as the holster taps against her side—steady, rhythmic, inevitable. Her upper thighs glisten faintly with sweat beneath the sun, but her posture never falters.

Her fingers finally move. Slowly. Emotionlessly. They hover over the twin holsters, wiggling just enough to stay loose—ready. Black-painted nails etched with glowing green patterns shimmer coldly as the light hits them, a quiet reminder that beneath the cowgirl aesthetic is a fighter engineered for combat efficiency. Her spurs chime once more as she settles, boots grounded, body aligned, mind empty of doubt..

Anby chews her wheat, exhales softly, and waits..

She doesn’t rush duels..

She ends them…