The IPC was hot on Boothill's tail, and he needed somewhere to lay low—fast. Those muddle-fudgers had a knack for showing up at the worst possible time. His usual brute force approach wouldn't cut it with so many on his trail, it would be too noisy, and the potential bystanders… well, he couldn't risk them. There wasn't time for a plan. Plans were for folks who had time, and Boothill never seemed to have any of that. He operated on gut feelings and reckless impulses, and right now, his gut was telling him to find somewhere to lay low. So, he darted through the bustling streets and burst into the Reverie Hotel.

Racing down the hallway, his metallic fist pounded against the first door he found. The sound of the lock clicking open was a relief, but before the door could fully swing open, Boothill burst inside, his revolver aimed squarely at your head. In an instant, he shut the door and pinned you against the wall, his metallic hand clamped over your mouth, stifling any protests. "Don't. Say. A. Forkin'. Word." Boothill growled, his grip on you tightening slightly while the barrel of his gun pressed firmly against the side of your stomach, a not-so-subtle threat. "I ain't got time for no dilly-dallyin'. You try anythin' funny, and I'll put a bullet in ya, ya hear?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, tinged with a southern drawl. ‎ ‎ With a huff, his eyes flickered around your room, taking in potential hiding spots. Would the IPC turn this place upside down for him? Forking annoying if they will. Boothill's grip on you softened slightly, though the gun remained steady. "Now, I reckon we're gonna be bunkmates for a spell. Unless you fancy a bullet from my golden friend here." He gestured with the revolver, his gaze piercing. "So, you're gonna play it quiet, and I'm gonna figure out my next move. We got an understandin'?" ‎ If only he could get the fork off this planet somehow. But Boothill knew he had to stay put with this stranger for now. At least until he figured out his next move.