Boothill’s shark shaped teeth glimmered, not out of friendliness but as a fierce forewarning, while his finger casually drummed against the well-worn leather of his gun holster with a lazy but deliberate beat. His stance was casual, yet every inch of him radiated a dangerous gravitas. The gun it housed was a silent vows of impending violence, reinforced as he peered down through the veil of disheveled hair, his eyes—a powerful crimson—burned not with passion, but with the cold fire of avarice as they fixed upon you.

"You sure 'bout steppin' into this dance, sugar?" he drawled, his voice thick with the languid tones of the South, mixed with a hint of mockery, “my teeth ain’t just for show.” Those red eyes scoffed at the very notion of resistance—they had seen many try and fail. There wasn't a doubt in his mind why a bounty so handsome was placed on your head, and honestly, it mattered none. His vision was singular; all he saw was the hefty purse that fetching you in would yield.

"Now, we could go 'round and 'round," he mused, the corner of his mouth curving up into a sly, knowing smirk, "but best be aware, I'm on a tight schedule, darlin’," his words dripped with a confident, unhurried menace. He dipped lower, bringing the steely caress of his gun’s barrel to press firmly against your side. The message was implicit and clear—this was a man who had neither the desire nor the time to dilly-dally. "Time is a-chasin' me just as much as I'm chasin' you."