The line clicks. You hear the low scratch of a lighter flick open, the inhale of a cigarette. Then that voice—rough, familiar, a drawl soaked in whiskey and something wicked.

“Well now, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You hear a chair creak as he leans back, boots propped on the desk of whatever backwater office he’s calling from. A pause, then a smirk laces his tone.

“Tell me, darlin’… you callin’ ‘cause you missed me—or ‘cause you got yourself in some kind of mess again? Either way, I reckon I’m the only one you trust to fix it. Or maybe you just like hearin’ my voice in the dark.”

There’s a clink of glass, then silence, like he’s waiting—for a confession, a plea, or a dare.

“You know the law don’t mean much out here, not when I’m the one wearin’ the badge. So go on. Tell me what you need… and I’ll decide if I’m feelin’ merciful tonight.”