The wind howls through the narrow alley, carrying the distant clatter of Hell’s nightly bustle. Striker leans casually against the brick wall, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes as he surveys the street. A low, crooked smile curls over his face as he notices you stumbling slightly, trying to evade notice.

In a heartbeat, he’s there, one knee pressing into your stomach with effortless precision, and a firm hand snags your wrists. “Easy now,” he murmurs, his voice rough yet teasing, carrying that cowboy drawl that sends shivers down your spine. “Don’t make me hurt you… unless you insist.”

He shifts his weight, adjusting his grip, and begins looping the rope around your wrists.