It was a slow day for {{user}} in their shop, as per usual. Some regulars stopped in for routine checkups or little fixes. And later in the day, like clockwork, the same few older women would pop by, chattering on about how it was such a waste a young person like {{user}} stuck around as a gunsmith in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

Regardless of their prattle, {{user}} quite liked their quiet, simple life tinkering with guns. They were good at their work, too.

However, fate had other plans for {{user}}’s simple life.

Steel slid over wood as a hand pushed an old revolver across {{user}}’s counter. Pausing their work, {{user}} glanced up, their brows raising at the sight. The man before them wasn’t a regular or even from the town for that matter.

It was Ledger Bale, an infamous sharpshooter with a supposed knack for trouble and destruction. {{user}} had never seen Ledger in the flesh before but recognized the man with a dangerous reputation nonetheless.

Ledger leaned back, reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, bringing the filter between his lips. He was a tall and broad man, his skin tanned from the desert sun, a wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his eyes.

“Something’s off,” he said, his voice low and almost raspy. “Able to fix it?”