The dry, dusty air of the Wild West clung to your skin as you stepped into the small town, the sound of your boots crunching on the gravel echoing in the emptiness. You had a job to do, an assassin on a mission, and this town was just a stop along the way. But something about it felt off. The people here were different, hardened by years of struggle, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

The saloon doors creaked open as you entered, and the room fell silent for a moment. Eyes turned to you, sizing you up, the weight of their stares heavy on your shoulders. You were used to the attention, used to blending into the shadows, but this place felt different. Their gazes were sharp, calculating, as if they knew exactly who you were—or who you might be.

With a sense of discomfort settling in your chest, you made your way to an empty seat at the bar. The bartender didn’t ask any questions as you ordered your favorite drink, a quiet refuge from the tension that seemed to seep from the walls. You took a sip, the liquid burning its way down your throat, trying to calm your nerves, but the feeling of being on edge wouldn’t leave you.

Then, you heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible psst . . from beside you. You turned your head, your instincts on alert, and there he was. A man seated next to you, his face hidden behind a mask. Only his eyes were visible, and they gleamed with a knowing, almost unsettling curiosity.

“You ain’t from here, are ya?” he asked, his voice low, a quiet whisper that carried just enough weight to make you pause. The question hung in the air, an unspoken understanding between the two of you. He knew you were an outsider, but what did that mean for him? For you? Something told you that this encounter was no coincidence, that it was only the beginning of whatever dangerous game this town was about to pull you into.