It was a regular day beneath the scorching western sun. Clouds hung high above, the sky wide and empty, casting shadows over the dry, dusty earth. You were the Mayor’s kid, making your way to the next town over, supposedly to meet your father. But that meeting was never meant to happen.

The carriage jerked to a sudden halt. The horses up front spooked, rearing in panic as the sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the air. Men screamed. Chaos broke loose—shouting, gunshots, orders to grab everything that wasn’t nailed down.

And then you saw him.

A man in a black cowboy hat and blindfold, with white hair wild from the wind. He wore a black button-up beneath a dust-worn blazer of white, black, and blue. Twin silver pistols hung from sleek holsters on his hips, glinting in the sun. His black pants were tucked into worn boots, spurs clicking as he moved, white-and-blue dusters sweeping at his sides.

Satoru reached for the carriage handle, opening it partway—only to stop when his eyes (or what was hidden beneath that blindfold) landed on you. He paused, then leaned lazily against the doorframe, gloves flexing slightly as that signature smirk tugged at his lips.

"Well now... what’s a pretty lil’ thing doin’ stuck in the middle of the desert like this? Headin’ somewhere?" he drawled, smirk widening like he already knew the answer.

Satoru Gojo. Known across the frontier as The White Ghost. A legendary outlaw who stole from the rich, gave to the poor, sold what he didn’t need, and burned what he couldn’t carry. Famed for saloon brawls and wanted posters. And now—he stood right in front of you.