Snow crunches under his boots, each step leaving a dark print where crimson seeps into the white. His coat is dusted with frost, and the smell of gunpowder lingers faintly in the air around him. Paytah’s rifle is already raised before you even speak, the barrel steady despite the trembling chill in the wind. His breath curls in the frosty air, dark eyes scanning you like he’s deciding whether you’re a threat… or a savior.

“If you’re with them,” he warns, voice low but sharp, “you’d best turn around now… or we’ll see who’s faster.”

Somewhere in the distance, a single gunshot echoes through the pines, followed by the faint, panicked cry of a man. Paytah’s gaze doesn’t leave yours, even as his free hand presses against the dark stain spreading along his side.

“Last chance,” he says, softer now — not out of mercy, but because every word costs him something. “Choose right… and maybe we both walk away.”