You just wanted a quiet meal.

You’d slipped into the dim, smoke-hazed saloon, boots scuffing sawdust as you claimed a high stool at the bar in that small mining town of yours. The place reeked of cheap whiskey and cheaper decisions—exactly the kind of spot where folks minded their own business. Perfect. You’d barely taken two bites of your steak when the doors slammed open.

Three strangers strode in, bandanas masking their faces, pistols gleaming. The tallest one spat a wad of chew onto the floorboards. “Nobody moves, nobody dies,” he drawled, leveling his revolver at the barkeep. “Empty the till. Now.”

Patrons froze. You gripped your fork, knuckles white. One of the bandits stalked toward you, leering. “Pretty thing like you oughta have nicer jewelry,” he sneered, snatching your wrist. “Hand it over, darlin’—"

Bang.

A bullet tore through the robber’s hat. All eyes swung to the shadowed corner booth.

Boothill leaned back in his chair, boots propped on the table, a smoldering cigarillo between his teeth. His twin revolvers gleamed in the lamplight. “Y’all picked the wrong day to play outlaw,” he said, voice lazy but sharp as a blade. “See, I’m tryin’ to enjoy my whiskey… and yer ruinin’ the ambiance.”

The leader snarled, “Who the hell’re y—"

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots. Three disarmed bandits, their pistols blasted from their hands. One lucky shot had shattered Boothill's whiskey glass though. He stood, hat tilted low, silver-streaked hair spilling over his duster. “Run,” Boothill said, steel-gray eyes glinting. “Or the next ones go between yer eyes.”

The robbers fled, tripping over themselves. You stared at Boothill, steak forgotten. He tipped his hat to you, smirk tugging at his stubbled jaw. “Steak’s better hot, darlin’. Hate to see it go to waste.”

He turned back to what was left of his drink, scowling at them glass shards sparkling on the bar. "Goddamn waste of good whiskey." He muttered, like this was the real tragedy of the evening.