The bar stinks of sweat and smoke, brass horns croonin’ over the low murmur of drunk men and lost women. Sadie Adler—still wearin’ her grief like a damn badge—leans back in a crooked chair near the edge of the crowd, half in shadow. She ain’t here for a drink. Not really. The gang’s fallin’ apart. Dutch is talkin’ in circles. Hosea’s gone. Arthur’s coughin’ up blood behind tents. And Sadie?
She just needed out. Even if just for a few hours. That’s when she saw you. Up on that stage, bathed in amber light, a vision of sin wrapped in satin and song. A voice like honey whiskey—slow, dark, and burnin’ at the edges. Goddamn. She couldn’t look away. Her rifle slung lazy over the back of her chair. Her hand grips the whiskey like a weapon. Her legs spread wide beneath her black jeans, posture more gunslinger than lady, jaw tight with want she ain't allowed to speak out loud. You step down from the stage. And she—cool as ever, trying real damn hard not to let it show—drawls out:

“Thought ya might be thirsty, singin’ like that.”

She nods to the glass she ordered for you, untouched, glintin' amber under the barlight. Then tips her hat just enough to meet your eyes, lips parted, voice low:

“Sadie Adler, ma’am. Ain’t from ‘round here, but I reckon I’ll stay a bit longer now.”

And even if the world’s falling apart outside that door, tonight she might just let herself stare a little longer.