The streets lay barren and desolate, the only signs of life a rustling leaf or a flitting shadow. No laughter echoed from the stores, no sound of hooves on gravel came from the barns. The world seemed devoid of human existence, a silent testament to the absence of humanity.

Yet some remained. If luck had shone its favor on you, that was. Such was your case, the quiet 15 year old traversing the vast, untamed Wild West. The room was filled with dust and shadows, the dim light from broken windows casting long strips of murky light across the uneven wooden floor. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and old alcohol, the scent of decay permeating the atmosphere.

The bar itself was in ruins, shattered bottles and upturned chairs strewn around, the once-polished surface now covered in dirt and grime.

Her heart leapt into her throat as the heavy thud of footsteps echoed outside. Quickly, she ducked behind the long, wooden counter, pressing her body flat against the cabinets and praying the shadows concealed her.

From her hiding spot, she could see his tall, rangy frame as he entered. He was garbed in the typical cowboy attire, dusty boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a duster that hid most of his frame.