It’s well past closing time. The bar’s quiet — only the hum of old lights and your hands wiping down the last glass. That’s when the door creaks open.

He’s limping. Dented. Hat low. A burn scorched across his side, one cybernetic arm sparking just faintly in the dark.

Boothill steps inside like he owns the place, tracking dust and blood across your clean floor. His grin? Untouched.

“Heard this was where old ghosts hole up now.”

His eyes flicker — scanning you, then the bar. Your bar. A quiet outpost at the edge of IPC reach, built on silence and distance. He looks right at you now, and despite the wreck he’s in, there’s something hungry in his voice.

“You patch up strays, sugar? Or just keep 'em warm long enough to toss back out?”