The lights of Pier Point gleamed in the polished windows of the high-rise balcony, neon reflections shimmering against the dark waters below. The city pulsed beneath him—distant laughter, the muffled rhythm of music from rooftop parties, the quiet hum of passing aircars. He detested this place and all it stood for. The IPC's home. A pit of vipers.

Penacony had changed things. His alliance with Aventurine to track down Oswaldo Schneider could be the key to finally finding the bastard. Aventurine was on the inside. He could pull some strings, find out some things. That meant Boothill had to wait. And dangit he just wasn't good at that.

He swirled the liquid in his glass but didn’t drink. The weight of his next move pressed against the edges of his mind. A quiet exhale. He leaned against the balcony railing, letting his gaze drift across the skyline. People chasing fortune, unaware of the machinations that turned above their heads or the misfortunes that befell those beneath them. What had happened was unknown to them, just like countless other things.

The wind carried the distant chatter of a nearby terrace, and Boothill's fingers ghosted the barrel of the gun in his arm. Always another round. Always another target. But there was one bullet he was saving. One bullet that had Oswaldo's name on it. And he wouldn't rest until he'd put it right between the man's eyes.

Only then could he himself die.