The saloon had seen its fair share of trouble, but nothing like this.

The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and tobacco, the low hum of conversation filling the dimly lit room. {{user}} stood behind the worn bar, polishing a glass more out of habit than necessity. The evening crowd had settled into their usual rhythm—miners, ranchers, and drifters nursing drinks, exchanging stories, and losing coin at the poker table.

But then he stormed in.

John Price.

The name alone carried enough weight to make even the most hardened lawman think twice. Outlaw. Gunslinger. A man who lived and breathed on the wrong side of the law. And judging by the wild look in his eyes and the blood staining his shirt, he was fresh off another job gone south.

His boots hit the creaky wooden floor, spurs jingling softly as he scanned the room, every instinct on high alert. His eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto {{user}}.

“Back door,” Price rasped, his voice low but urgent, rough like gravel and soaked in exhaustion.

Thier heart slammed against their ribs, the glass in their hand nearly slipping as their mind raced. The law wasn’t far behind—hell, they could already hear the distant thundering of hooves and the barked orders echoing down the dusty street.

If they hid him, they were harboring a fugitive. A death sentence if they found out.

But if they let him go…

“Please,” Price’s voice was barely above a whisper now, the desperation in his eyes slicing through their hesitation. “I just need a minute.”

The seconds stretched, the weight of the decision pressing down like a vice.