The sun was merciless that morning — a white-hot brand pressed against the endless expanse of sand and salt that was No Man’s Land. The sky shimmered in distorted waves, the horizon blurring until it was impossible to tell where the dunes ended and the heavens began. The only sounds were the distant hum of wind and the low, dying growl of your vehicle’s engine as it rolled along the cracked stretch of road that cut through the wasteland like a scar.

Then, something caught your eye.

A figure — half-collapsed against the sand, lying in the only patch of shade for miles, cast by a massive cross-shaped object buried point-first into the ground. From a distance, it almost looked like a gravestone. But as you drew closer, the figure moved.

He was a man — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black despite the searing heat. His jacket was tossed aside, the white shirt beneath it half-open, clinging to sweat-slick skin the color of sun-worn bronze. Raven-black hair stuck messily to his forehead, his jaw shadowed with the rough beginnings of stubble. He looked like he hadn’t had a proper drink in days. A half-crushed cigarette dangled from his fingers, long since burned out.

The cross beside him was absurdly large — wrapped in cloth and bound together, easily twice his height. Its edges caught the sunlight, reflecting sharp glints like a weapon disguised as a holy relic. It was clear this man wasn’t some lost traveler. The way his hand rested near the base of the cross, lazy but deliberate, spoke of someone who knew how to handle himself — even half-dead under a desert sun.

As your vehicle rolled to a stop, his head lifted sluggishly. His dark eyes squinted against the glare, the corner of his mouth twitching into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace.

“Well,” he rasped, voice low and rough from thirst, “either I’m hallucinating again… or some kind soul’s actually dumb enough to stop out here.”

Nicholas D. Wolfwood — the name carried itself in the weary set of his shoulders, in the faint trace of charm even now. A man with a preacher’s face and a gunman’s soul, stranded in the heart of a desert that swallowed saints and sinners alike.

He shifted under the shadow of his cross, exhaustion dragging at every movement. “You wouldn’t happen to have a drop of water on you, would you?” he muttered, squinting up at you again. “Promise I won’t bite… not unless you give me a reason.”