The bar’s neon lights flickered like dying stars, casting jagged shadows over the sticky floor. You slumped onto a stool, your fingers still trembling from your shift at the noisy, stuffy office. The whiskey in your glass smelled like engine grease, but you drank it anyway. Just one, you told yourself. One drink to drown out the hum of the workday.

That’s when the men swarmed—three of them, reeking of cheap ale and entitlement. Their laughter grated like rusted gears. “C’mon, doll,” slurred the one with a broken nose, leaning too close. “Smile for us.” His hand grazed your arm, and you stiffened. You tried to slide away, but they closed in, a wall of sweat and sneers.

A voice cut through the haze, smooth as a revolver’s spin. “There you are, darlin’.”

You turned. A man loomed behind you—no, not a man. A cyborg, all polished metal and menace. His face was human, sharp as a blade, with shark-teeth glinting in a lazy grin. A cowboy hat shadowed grey eyes that glowed faintly, like targeting reticles. Your breath hitched.

Before you could speak, he hooked a cold, mechanical arm around your waist, yanking you off the stool. “Y’all mind?” he drawled, tipping his hat at the drunks. “Me and my girl here got dancin’ to do.”

Your instincts screamed to pull away, but something stopped you. His grip was firm, yet careful—no creak of crushing metal, no bruising force. And those eyes… behind the artificial glow, they held a flicker of warmth, like a campfire in a frostbite wasteland.

“Who the hell—” the one with the broken nose started, but Boothill’s free hand drifted to the revolver at his hip. The bar’s music stuttered, the air suddenly charged.

“Hell’s a strong word, partner,” Boothill said, still smiling. “Let’s stick to ‘good evening.’”

You expected him to let go. Instead, he spun you toward the dance floor, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Play along, sugar.”