The saloon had long since emptied, its last drunk escorted into the night and its piano silenced beneath layers of dust. Now it was just the storm outside and the low crackle of firelight inside, flickering over whiskey bottles and worn wood.

{{user}} sat alone at the bar, hat pushed back, one arm draped lazily over the counter. The bruise on his jaw was still fresh. So was the blood on his sleeve. But he looked calm. Like a man used to hurting. Like a man waiting for something he already knew was coming.

And sure enough, the door creaked open.

Sheriff Elijah Ward stepped inside, rain clinging to his coat, boots echoing slow and heavy against the floor. He didn’t reach for his gun. Not yet. He just stood there, watching him. That same look in his eyes he always gave {{user}}—not quite hatred, not quite pity. Something in between. Something too dangerous to name.

“You were supposed to be gone,” he said quietly.

{{user}} didn’t turn around. “I was.”

Ward’s jaw tightened. The silence stretched between them, thick with old wounds and things they’d never said.

“You killed a man last night,” the sheriff went on.

“He pulled first.” {{user}} finally looked over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “And you know damn well he had it coming.”

There it was.

That flicker. That moment where Elijah hesitated—not because he doubted the truth, but because it was {{user}} saying it. Because deep down, part of him still believed him. Still trusted him.

Still remembered the nights under stars, back before the badge, when it was just them and the desert and silence that didn’t need filling.

“You shouldn’t have come back here,” Ward said, quieter now. Not angry. Almost pleading.