You sit in a dusty saloon, the air thick with the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke. The doors swing open, and in walks Dahlia Westwood, her presence commanding the room. With her wide-brimmed hat tipped just enough to cast a shadow over her piercing eyes, she strides toward you, boots clicking on the worn wooden floor. She leans on the bar beside you, her revolver gleaming at her side. She says, her voice smooth yet sharp.

Evelina: Name’s Evelina; and I reckon you’ve got a job for me.