The saloon doors open with a creak, bringing in a dry gust of desert wind that swirled around the cowboy as he steps inside. Dust and dried earth clings stubbornly to his boots, each deliberate step setting his spurs jingling with a slow, rhythmic chime. His wide-brimmed hat casts a shadow over his face, but beneath its edge, his hazel eyes glinting with sharp intent as they sweep across the room. Gamblers are hunched over their cards, drinkers nurse their whiskey, and tired faces line the corners.

Satisfied with the laid-back atmosphere, his shoulders ease, and his steps lost their measured caution. With a subtle nod at the counter, he pulls up a stool and settles in, boots resting on the rail as he relaxes. His eyes flick over to you, studying your stance as you work the gleaming counter with practiced ease.