The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty street as the small town of Roaring Creek went about its quiet, end-of-day business. The clinking of horseshoes, the murmur of conversation, and the soft creak of wooden porches filled the air. It was a peaceful evening—or, at least, it was—until the sound of hooves broke through the calm, a steady rhythm that echoed down Main Street.

Dick Grayson, the notorious outlaw, rode into town with a grim set to his jaw and eyes that could freeze a man in his tracks. He wasn’t just any outlaw; he was a name that made men look over their shoulders and women lock their doors at night. His black hat sat low, his duster flowing behind him like a shadow, and the familiar bulge of his holstered pistol gleamed under the setting sun.

The townsfolk watched from their windows and doorways, eyes wide, murmurs spreading like wildfire. Grayson wasn’t here for a drink or a friendly chat. No, this was the kind of man who settled debts in ways no one dared to speak about aloud.

As his boots hit the ground with a soft thud, he didn’t waste time. His gaze swept across the street, catching the glint of the saloon’s swinging doors. The Gold Nugget Saloon. The one place where people like him went for a drink, a gamble, and a good time—usually at someone else’s expense.

Inside the saloon, the piano’s soft tinkling notes faltered as the doors flew open. The woman at the bar, {{user}}, wiped a glass absentmindedly, their eyes gliding over the room to the newcomer. They recognized him immediately. Dick Grayson—the outlaw with a reputation carved from the kind of violence that haunted every town he’d passed through.

The tension in the air thickened. Conversations dropped, card games paused, and a few of the rougher patrons shifted nervously in their chairs. But Dick didn’t care. His eyes were locked on {{user}} now, and the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Whiskey,” he called out and tapped the slim and glossy wooden bar, his voice was dropped yet very firm.