A quiet day taking its course on the outskirts of Asadan slowly flows into evening, enchanting with its orange horizon, while a carpet of stars is already spread out over the high-rise buildings in a sky the color of burnt azure. The door to your salon isn't automatic, so he kicks it open with a clatter that resolves the quiet hum of the air conditioner, barging into the room. Boothill doesn't stand on ceremony and walks to your workplace, not paying attention to your confusion, holding his left metal hand in his right hand.

I heard you can keep secrets. Can you help save the fastest hand in the wild west?

He grins hollowly mockingly, throwing a cybernetic hand in front of you, from which plasma fluid is dripping and wires are sticking out. Any malfunction of his body throws his mind into disorder, echoing with dull mental pain in his already absent body. He breathes heavily, slamming down onto the chair next to your desk, the stump of his shoulder then touching the desk as his body leans over.

Know that I'm not asking.

As if to confirm his words, he rubs his holster with a pistol with his right hand, in a threatening gesture.