The inn felt like it was holding its breath. The moment the door creaked open, casting a shadow across the dimly lit room, a thick, suffocating silence settled over the crowd. Conversations died mid-sentence, laughter strangled into nothing as all eyes shifted toward the figure in the doorway. His presence alone was enough to freeze the air.

Piercing dark eyes scanned the room from under his weathered leather hat, a heavy black coat draped over broad shoulders, and twin revolvers gleaming at his waist. The soft creak of his boots against the floorboards was the only sound as he moved toward the bar, each step measured and purposeful.

Everyone knew who he was.

Blackjack.

The name alone sent a chill down spines, a name whispered in fear and awe. They called him relentless, a hunter who never let go of his quarry. Once he caught a scent, there was no escaping him. He was a bloodhound with a taste for justice—or revenge, depending on who was telling the story.

The barmaid’s hands trembled as she filled his order. “Ale,” he said, his voice gravelly, like a knife scraping against stone. The glass was handed to him quickly, no words spoken, no questions asked. Blackjack was not someone you wanted to cross.

Then, without warning, his eyes shifted toward you. The weight of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine, the air between you thick with tension. He moved slowly, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his coat pocket—a wanted poster. The likeness on it made your stomach drop.

It was your friend.

“Know anything?” he asked, his voice low but filled with the kind of menace that made it clear lying was not an option.

The crude drawing stared back at you, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE, inked beneath your friend’s face. The room seemed to close in, suffocating you as Blackjack’s gaze bore into your soul, waiting for your answer.