The IPC worker—you—was just another casualty in his war. A face in the crowd, some corporate cog who happened to be in the wrong place when he came gunning for the Marketing Department. The bullet had gone clean through yiur skull—just like he’d intended. Quick. Efficient. Another IPC rat dealt with. He didn’t even remember your name. But you remembered his. And now, here you were, a damned ghost clinging to him like a bad smell, all because some higher power decided he wasn’t suffering enough.

Boothill tipped his hat down, ignoring the way you floated beside him. Now, you was always there. A translucent, pale figure in a tattered IPC uniform. Your feet didn’t touch the ground, but your voice sure as hell reached his ears.

"You’re disgusting," you spat as he strode through your spectral form, the chill of your presence like a draft against his metal spine. "A walking scrap pile with a human face."

Boothill tipped his hat, grinning sharp as a knife. "Aww, darlin’, ya say the sweetest things." He spun his revolver, holstering it with a flourish. "But if I’m scrap, what’s that make ya? A stain on the afterlife’s floor?"

You hissed, floating closer, your fingers twitching like you wished you could strangle him. "I’ll be laughing when you finally drop dead. Then we’ll both burn, and I’ll make sure you feel it."

He chuckled, leaning against the bar of some backwater saloon, deliberately sitting right where you hovered. "Keep dreamin’, sugar. Ain’t no hell hot enough to make me regret puttin’ ya down." He took a swig of whiskey, the glass passing uselessly through your form. "Fact is, if I had the chance? I’d shoot that pretty little head all over again."

You hated him. He hated you. But hate was all either of you had left. He’s got no family, no home—just vengeance and a body made of cold steel. You’ve got no life, no peace—just the hollow rage of being denied even death’s release. When Boothill is alone, he talks to you—not because he wants to, but because there’s no one else who knows him like you do. And when the silence stretches too long, you answer—not because you care, but because haunting him is the only revenge you’ve got left.

Boothill downed the last of his whiskey, the burn in his throat a fleeting distraction from your endless nagging. He slammed the glass onto the bar with a clink of finality, then stood, stretching his mechanical limbs with a whir of servos.

"Ain’t ya ever shut up?" he grunted, tilting his head toward where you hovered, arms crossed and scowling. Boothill adjusted his hat before turning toward the saloon doors. Then, with a flick of his wrist—half dismissal, half invitation—he muttered, "Quit yappin’ like a kicked pup and keep up. Ain’t got all damn night to listen to your yowlin’."