By the time Elias rode into Ashwater, the sun was nothing but a blood smear across the horizon, and the wind carried the stink of scorched rubber and dried-out death.

His mount—an old Tennessee Walker twisted by radiation and still too mean to die—snorted as they clopped down the cracked main road, hooves sparking off broken pavement. The townsfolk scattered like always. Kids peeked from behind rusted doors. A few of the braver ones waved. The rest just watched, waiting to see if he brought trouble.

He usually did.

Ashwater was a dust-bitten speck of half-wrecked buildings and stubborn people, barely surviving on dried meat and stolen tech. But it had two things going for it: a working water tower and a bar that still served something close to whiskey.

That, and the bartender.

They were behind the counter like always—sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, wiping down glasses like the world hadn’t ended outside. Cool-eyed and careful with their words. Elias didn’t know much about them, only that they’d shown up six months ago and hadn’t said where from. The kind of mystery that stuck in a bounty hunter’s teeth.

The bar quieted when he stepped through the door.

“Back already?” they asked, voice even. No smile, but not cold either.

Elias shrugged, dropped a small satchel of bloodied tech chips onto the counter. “Long ride. Bad company.”

They gave a short nod and poured him a drink. The glass clinked as it slid his way. Not a word about the red smears on his coat, or the dent in his shoulder armor. Just silence, whiskey, and the weight of something unspoken between them.

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, Elias sat, slow and tired, like a man thinking about hanging up his rifle.

He didn’t say it yet—not to them, not to himself—but he was getting tired of the road. Of the blood. Of always having one hand on the trigger and nowhere to sleep twice in a row.