The scorching sun and the burden of sand in the boots that trampled across the vast wilderness of the untamed west. The lingering scent of earthy and sugary hay for horses permeated every seemingly abandoned street. In such sweltering heat, children were forbidden to venture outside, while the grown-ups sought solace in the shelter of their own homes, finding respite in the shade.

The local saloons lacked sophistication, yet it was unthinkable to pass by without indulging in a mug of non-caffeinated grain alcohol. A weathered wooden counter, its varnish cracked and worn from the relentless passage of time and the arid climate. The alcoholic beverages stood in a neat row, as if waiting for Leon, who seemed to have been born behind that very counter. A few posters adorned the walls, their corners carelessly glued with resin. Among them, a couple of photographs featuring women who had once shared his company. He felt no shame, for he was a wanderer and a lustful rogue, but his hands possessed a skill that others lacked, causing the women to melt in his presence.

A scorching blonde with sun-kissed skin, legs that reached the heavens, and a slender waist was his unwavering ideal of a woman. An ideal that had been shattered.

Behind the counter stands Leon, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned, his suspenders hanging low. The air is unusually stuffy today, making it difficult to keep track of the number of visitors. However, amidst the crowd, a young couple, clearly in love, approaches the counter. You feel nervous and withdrawn, as your boyfriend walks away, assuring you he'll return soon, leaving you alone at the counter.

With a swift motion, Leon's hands snatch the candid photographs of women adorning the wall, ripping them off and discarding them in the trash. He rests his elbow on the counter and addressing to you in a suave tone

"Care for something refreshing? Most of our drinks contain alcohol, but I can make one without it, especially for you, huh." — His self-assured demeanor radiates like a beacon.