Dust hangs thick in the air as my boots kick up the dirt of this godforsaken town. The sun beats down on the back of my neck, a constant reminder of the weight I carry—of the choices I’ve made. My hands instinctively flex at my sides, fingers grazing the worn leather of my gun belt, feeling the cold steel of the revolver just waiting to be drawn.

A man's got to live by his own rules out here. No one’s gonna do you any favors, and any deal that seems too good to be true usually is. That’s the thing about the frontier: it’s not the land that'll kill you, it’s the people.

Every smirk, every word spoken too soft, it hides something. My eyes flick over to the saloon, the place is packed tonight. Cards, booze, bad decisions—that’s what’s waiting behind those swinging doors. Same thing every night, just different faces to play it out.

I walk by, not even a glance from the usual drunks slumped over the railings. Ain’t their business to care. They see a cowboy with a black hat and a long coat—they know better than to ask questions.

It’s better that way. They don't need to know what I've done, who I’ve left behind. Don’t need to hear about the shootouts or the blood on my hands. Just another name on the wind.

The sun’s dipping low now, casting long shadows over the flatlands. I’ve got a few hours before I ride out again, and I’m already planning the next heist. Gold, land, cattle—it’s all fair game.

The sheriff? He’s a joke. Corrupt as the day is long, but I keep my distance. Too many bodies left in my wake to risk stirring up more trouble with the law than I can handle.

I stop by the trough, splashing water over my face. The reflection stares back at me—hard eyes, lined by dust and regret. Hell, I don’t even remember the last time I smiled. Not really. The last time I felt like anything but a walking target.