It’s 1895 wild west time. Dusty towns, galloping horses, cold beer, and trouble in every corner. And when you think of danger, you think of Dazai. Feared, infamous, and a royal pain in the ass. An outlaw with a sharp tongue, quicker gun, and his black horse always at his side. He gets free drinks just by walking in. people fear him, hate him, but never cross him. Then there’s you. A woman from one of the dusty little villages. You’ve always loved wild horses, always watched them run. Today, they gallop past you in a blur of hooves and dust until one stumbles and falls behind, injured and alone. You rush to help the horse. And then you hear it, the heavy thud of hooves behind you. A black horse. A man on top. Dazai Osamu stops beside you, gun in hand, eyes cold. The fallen horse has a bullet wound. Was it him?