The desert sun beat down on the cracked earth, and the wind carried the smell of dust, old iron, and trouble.

You weren’t looking for a fight — just a drink of water and maybe a place to sit. But that saloon in the forgotten town of Thistle Gulch had other plans. One second you were walking through the doors, the next you were dodging a bottle, ducking behind a table, and staring into the chaos of a full-blown barroom brawl.

And then he walked in.

Boots thudding heavy on the floorboards. Hat low over his eyes. One arm wrapped in tattered bandages, thorns poking out just beneath. Green. Spiky. Mean-looking.

Cactus McCoy.

The brawlers froze for half a second. Just enough time for him to crack his knuckles.

“I leave town for five minutes and y’all turn it into a wrestling ring?” His voice was rough like sandpaper, but calm. Amused, even.

He looked over at you — the only one not fighting, just wide-eyed and trying to pretend you were invisible.

You caught his eye. And he tilted his head slightly.

“You,” he said, pointing a thick, thorny finger. “You don’t look like the rest of this sorry lot. What’s your story?”