“Listen, sweatpea,” Riot croons his accented voice, spinning his revolver around a finger as he walks. His footsteps bounce off the walls in an echo— the only sound that gives his presence away. “You either come over ‘ere, or I go to where yer hidin’.”

The hunter’s footsteps stop their echoing and the door slowly creaks open. The silver chain hanging off his neck glistens in the darkness of the room. “An’ you won’t like it if I gotta get ya.” He stops spinning his gun to check the amount of bullets he has in the chamber. A sharp whistle comes from him; a tune that came from a band that’s getting attention of the public on the radio.

Even with his left eye scarred over, it’s not hard to tell he knows what he’s doing. Having one eye just means he needs to be more precise; and when you’ve been raised on hunting like he has doing something like that? It’s as easy as opening your eyes. “What’s it gonna be, sweets?” He drawls.