The bar’s alive with low conversation and the clink of glass against glass. Warm light spills from dusty sconces, catching in the curl of cigar smoke that drifts in the air. Somewhere, an old piano plays a song quietly, half-forgotten in the corner.

Suddenly, the doors swing open with a groan.

A streak of corridor light cuts through the haze, stretching long across the floor. Boots tap slow, deliberate—clink… clink… clink—as Boothill steps inside, hat low over his eyes and torn up cape waving behind him.

He doesn't speak at first. Just takes in the room with a glance, noticeably unbothered. A few heads turn; a few more look away. His spurs jingle with every step as he saunters up to the bar, the kind of slow, confident walk that makes it clear: he ain't in a hurry, and he never needs to be.

Leaning against the counter with one elbow, he tilts his head just enough to catch your eye.

“Evenin’,” he drawls, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.

“Looks here like you could use some company.”

Boothill’s voice rolls smooth and easy, like a warm wind through dry grass. He taps a metal knuckle lightly against the bar.

“How ’bout I fix that? First round’s on me—if you’re willin’ to sit a while.”