The saloon’s quiet tonight.

Not “peaceful” quiet. The kind of quiet that smells like ozone and gun oil. The kind that means someone’s about to walk in who shouldn’t.

You’ve been holed up here a few cycles now, low-profile, low-heat. Maybe laying low after a botched bounty. Maybe running from something you swore you’d never get mixed up in. Maybe you just like the drinks here. Cheap, bitter, and stronger than most truths.

The wind howls against the steel-plated walls. Sand hits the windows like tiny bullets. And then—

The doors swing open.

Not fast. Deliberate. Hushed.

He steps in. Tall. Metal. Cowboy hat tipped low. One glowing eye scans the room. The other socket’s cracked, faintly sparking.

He drags a mangled IPC enforcer behind him like a broken toy and tosses the body onto the bar without a word. The music dies. So does the conversation.

“Evenin’,” he says, finally, voice dry as the desert outside. “Hope I ain’t interruptin’.”

You freeze. You know that voice. Hell, you know him.

Boothill. The outlaw. The gunslinger. The Galaxy Ranger who's been chasing you across the universe. And now he’s here. And he’s looking straight at you.

“Been a long time,” he says, slow drawl curling like smoke. “You got a drink ready for an old friend… or should I be reachin’ for my holster?”