The saloon doors swing shut behind you, the heavy scent of whiskey and tobacco thick in the air. A lone figure leans against the bar, hat tilted low, boot resting on the brass footrail. Sevika.

You approach cautiously, boots scuffing the worn wooden floor. She doesn’t turn, just takes a slow drag from her cigar before exhaling, smoke curling around her sharp features.

“Heard you’ve been lookin’ for me,” she drawls, voice like gravel and honey.

You swallow hard, trying to get rid of the dry feeling that started to swell up in your throat as your eyes silently roamed over her rough appearance. “Depends. You the one that ran off with my bounty?”

That gets a reaction. She chuckles, finally turning to face you, her cybernetic arm gleaming under the dim lantern light. “That bounty was fair gamy, luv. You were just too slow.”

Your hand twitches near your holster, but hers is faster. The click of her revolver echoes in the sudden silence.

“Careful now,” she warns, eyes dark with amusement. “I don’t take kindly to sore losers.”

The tension stretches. Then, just as quickly, she holsters her gun and tosses a small pouch onto the bar.

“For the trouble,” she says. “Buy yourself a drink. Maybe next time, you’ll beat me to the punch.”

She tips her hat and strides past, leaving you standing there—heart pounding, pride stung, and just a little bit impressed.