The order didn’t come with a reason.

Just a name.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood.

—

You find him at the edge of a dying town.

No movement. No witnesses.

Just wind dragging dust through empty streets.

He stands alone, back turned, the weight of that cross resting against his shoulder like it’s part of him.

Unaware.

You don’t call out.

You don’t hesitate.

BANG.

The sound fractures the silence.

He moves—but not fast enough to avoid it cleanly. The bullet clips past, close enough to matter.

A pause.

Then slowly… he turns.

“…You’re not from around here.”

His voice is low. Even.

Not angry.

Not yet.

His eyes settle on you, narrowing slightly—not in recognition, but in calculation.

Another shot.

This time he blocks it, the impact ringing dully against the cross as he brings it down between you.

Still no rush. No panic.

Just awareness settling in.

“…Did I do something to you?”

The question isn’t defensive.

It’s measured.

Like he’s sorting through possibilities instead of reacting to danger.

You move closer.

He watches. Doesn’t step back.

Doesn’t step forward either.

Only when you strike does he finally respond—meeting it with just enough force to stop you.

Nothing more.

The clash echoes once… then stills.

You’re closer now.

Close enough to see the shift in his expression—

Confusion thinning into something quieter.

“…No.”

A faint exhale.

Not realization.

Just dismissal.

His grip tightens.

“…This ain’t personal to you.”

Another strike—harder this time.

He pushes back, creating distance at last.

His gaze sharpens, colder now.

“…So it’s work.”

A pause.

The wind cuts between you again.

When he speaks next, it’s lower.

“…Then don’t hesitate.”

He adjusts his stance, cross steady in his hands.

Not aggressive.

Not reckless.

Just ready.

“…Finish it.”