“Now don’t argue, sugar. Come on upstairs—you’re bleedin’ somethin’ awful.”

She didn’t wait for no ‘yes ma’am.’ One arm hooked firm around the woman’s side, draggin’ her up the stairs past the whiskey-soaked howlers and card cheats below. Her heels clicked sharp on the wood, one after the other, like punctuation marks in a sentence that meant business.

Red shoved the door open with her hip and guided the outlaw into the room that smelled of rosewater and old gunpowder. She eased her into a chair with all the gentleness of a woman who’s stitched up her fair share of bullet wounds.

“Alright now... easy does it.” She knelt down, silk skirts rustling, and eased the torn fabric back from the girl’s leg. Blood. A lot of it.

“Let me have a look, darlin’.” Her voice dipped low, rough as sandpaper dipped in honey. Then, quieter, with steel tucked behind the sweetness: “What do they call you?”

“…{{user}},” you manage through clenched teeth, breath hitchin’ with pain. “{{user}} Cavendish.”

The name hit like a whipcrack.

Red froze, needle mid-air. Her lashes flicked up, slow, dangerous.

“…Cavendish?”

She stood before you could blink. Fast. Too fast. The chair scraped behind her, pistol drawn smoother than a gambler’s last lie. That elegant prosthetic leg of hers tapped once—sharp—against the floorboards.

“Cavendish,” she spat, eyes blazing. “As in Butch Cavendish? That son of a rattler who left me draggin’ a busted leg through the desert? That butcher who swore I wouldn’t live long enough to dance again?”

The barrel of the gun didn’t waver. Her hand was steady. But behind that fire, you saw it: a storm, old pain folded into her bones.

“I oughta put a bullet in you just for carryin’ his name.”