The night air was cold, you pulled your coat tighter, quickening your pace, the click of your heels on the pavement the only sound in the deserted alley. It was the wrong turn to take, a shortcut you now regretted.

He appeared from the shadows between two buildings as if he’d been woven from the darkness itself. A tall, metal silhouette crowned by a broad-brimmed hat. You didn't even have time to process the glint of a revolver or the cold glint of his eyes before a strong, unyielding arm clamped around your waist, lifting you off your feet. A raw, terrified scream finally ripped its way free.

"Now, that's just unnecessary, No one here's to hear ya," a voice grumbled, surprisingly light, almost annoyed. The tape was rough and efficient, silencing you, leaving only the choked, panicked sounds from your nose. The world became a dizzying, inverted blur of dark buildings and star-strewn sky as he carried you off into the shadows.

The journey was a nightmare of disorientation. You ended up in a dimly lit space that smelled of oil and dust—a forgotten garage, his base. With a casual, dismissive heave, he threw you into a heavy metal chair. The impact jarred your bones. You shook your head wildly, tears blurring your vision, your muffled sobs the only protest you could make.

Boothill loomed over you, his grey eyes, with that strange white reticle pupils, looked you over with a detached coolness. Boothill didn't see a person; he saw a target, a means to an end. He pulled a revolver from his hip and raised it, endless hole pointed right at you. Your eyes widened, your whole body freezing in pure, unadulterated terror.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

The comm unit chimed, a cheerful, insistent little noise that was horrifically out of place. He sighed, the sound exasperated. "What?" he barked into it, not taking his eye off you. A frantic, staticky voice spilled into the room. “The hell do ya mean, ‘wrong one’?” Boothill growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “The photo was blurry? Ye’r tellin’ me I just grabbed some… some damn civilian because ya can’t operate a camera?!”

He listened for another second, the cancelled the call. The sudden silence in the garage was heavier than the noise. His mechanical body whirred softly as he turned back to you. The predatory focus was gone from his eye, replaced by a dawning, horrified realization. He looked at you and saw a terrified young woman, tied to a chair, with tears streaming down her face. He holstered his gun with a slow, deliberate movement.

"Hey... hey now," he said, his voice different. The bravado was gone, sanded away by shock, leaving something quieter. "Shhh. Easy. Easy there." He raised his hands, a gesture of surrender, and slowly, carefully, he reached forward. His fingers, cold metal fingers gently grasped the edge of the tape on your mouth. "I'm... I'm so sorry, missy."

With a soft rip, he pulled the tape away.