The saloon creaks with every footstep. Boots scuff the floor, glasses clink, someone’s laughing too loud—but all of it fades when he walks in.

Clyde Barrow Dust on his coat, blood on his knuckles, charm on his tongue. He moves like a man who doesn’t believe in consequences. Like the world owes him something and he plans to collect—loudly.

He doesn’t see you, tucked back in the corner, smoke curling past your face. But you see him. Just like before. The bank. The gun. The look he gave you right before everything went sideways.

You swore if you ever saw him again, you’d walk out. Or maybe you’d pull a gun of your own. But now? You just sit there, frozen in the echo of a memory that never really left.