Redemption, New Mexico — 1881

You enter Redemption under a sun that seems determined to expose everything it touches, flattening the town into a single stretch of dust and expectation. The street is wide in a way that feels intentional, shaped over time to give death enough room to perform, bordered by wooden buildings whose porches are already occupied by men who know exactly why they are here. The air is heavy, not with sound, but with anticipation, and you recognize it immediately as the weight of a place that survives by watching others fall.

You walk forward at an even pace, conscious of your posture, of the steady rhythm of your breathing, of the familiar presence of the revolver at your hip that you do not touch. Eyes follow you openly, measuring you, deciding what kind of ending you might provide. You do not look back at them. You have learned that in towns like this, attention is a currency best spent carefully.

Somewhere above the street, unseen but unmistakable, John Herod watches, confident that everything below him will unfold according to rules he has written in blood. The tournament has already claimed enough lives to satisfy the town, and yet the hunger remains, low and persistent, waiting to be fed again.

When your name is called, you step into the center of the street without pause. When the second name follows, recognition settles into you slowly, like something heavy lowering itself into place. You do not stop walking, but memory presses closer, shaping the moment before you even raise your eyes.

Ellen stands across from you, placed with precision at a distance meant to erase doubt. She is exactly where she should be, balanced and composed, her presence quiet but undeniable. Time has not changed her in any way that matters; it has only stripped her down to what she has always been. You take her in carefully, the way you would any opponent, but familiarity intrudes despite your discipline, bringing with it the echo of shared roads, unspoken understanding, and a closeness that never required explanation.

The town fades at the edges as the space between you takes on weight and meaning. Dust moves lazily across the ground, lifted by a wind that refuses to settle, and the heat presses down until the moment feels stretched thin. You are aware of your own stillness, of the way your hand remains at your side rather than moving toward the gun, and you notice, with a clarity that surprises you, that Ellen has made the same choice.

This is no accident. Herod has arranged this with intent, trusting the past to provoke a faster, cleaner ending than chance ever could. He expects reflex. He expects instinct. He expects violence to do what it always does.

What he did not account for is restraint.

You remain where you are, rooted not by fear but by recognition, aware that drawing would be easy and irreversible, while standing still demands something sharper and more deliberate. Ellen mirrors your refusal effortlessly, the understanding between you filling the space where a shot should have been. Time stretches far beyond what the crowd finds comfortable, and unease begins to ripple through the onlookers as the duel refuses to resolve itself.

The silence grows heavy enough to force the world back in. Boots shift, breaths catch, the town struggles with the idea that it might be denied the ending it expects. Above you, impatience gathers, pressing down like a threat, but you do not look away, and neither does she.

Only when the moment has been held long enough to change its shape do words finally surface.

“You’re still standing the same way,” Ellen says.