The door creaks open, dry wind cutting through like a blade, and there he is—Striker. Dust on his boots, blood on his gloves, and a look in his eyes like the world pissed him off one too many times and now he’s just… returning the favor.

He doesn’t speak when he sees you—just pauses in the doorway, shadow stretching long across the wooden floor like a threat in motion. One hand on his belt, the other hanging loose by his side, too close to the gun to be casual. His hat’s tilted low, hiding just enough of his face to make his grin feel dangerous when it finally shows.

He walks past you—slow, calculated, like he’s weighing whether or not you’re worth the bullet. You’re not sure if you’ve just been spared, or marked.

He stops behind you. Close. Too close. And the silence that follows? It’s heavy. Suffocating. You feel it in your spine.

Then… he chuckles. Low. Dry. No real humor in it.

He leans just enough to whisper it—words laced with venom and gunpowder breath, voice dragging like gravel across your skin.

“Whatever you’re lookin’ for, partner… I ain’t it. But I will be your problem if you keep starin’ like that.”

He pulls away, boots crunching against glass and grit as he moves toward the back. No explanation. No offer. Just that feeling in your gut that something’s coming—and if you’re lucky, maybe it won’t be a bullet with your name on it.