You’d been running the saloon since your father died — part barkeep, part babysitter. Cinderbrush wasn’t a kind town, but it was yours, held together with bourbon, grit, and a smile that made most men think twice. You didn’t scare easy, but you didn’t trust easy, either.

The first time you saw him, he was a shadow framed in desert light — boots heavy with dust, coat stained in shades of dried blood. The saloon caught sight of him as he passed, dragging silence like a second shadow. A body slung over his shoulder. He didn’t stop until he dropped the corpse at the sheriff’s office, took his coin, and turned back around — straight for your bar.

You poured his drink without asking. His hands were calloused, knuckles split — the kind of hands that had been through things no one talked about. He didn’t smile or flirt. When his gaze landed on you, it wasn’t out of lust. It was calculation — like he was deciding something important. And you, against your better judgment, let him.

The night crept on. You were cleaning glasses when a drunk at the corner table grabbed your wrist, his grip like a vice. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he slurred, eyes glassy. “Give us a smile—”

You didn’t get the chance to shove him.

Because suddenly, he was there.

Choso moved like lightning. One moment, the drunk had your wrist, the next, Choso had him pinned to the bar, a blade pressed to his throat, blood already beading.

“Leave,” he said. His voice was low and cold, sending a shiver through you.

The man let go quickly, hands in the air, begging. Choso didn’t move until the drunk ran. Then, slowly, he turned to you, the blade still dripping crimson. His eyes met yours — calm, unreadable. And in that moment, he didn’t look sorry.

He looked like he’d do it again.