After finishing your shift at the noisy, stuffy office, you went to a bar. You slumped onto a stool, your fingers still trembling from the workday. The whiskey in your glass smelled like engine grease, but you drank it anyway, telling yourself that just one drink would help drown out the hum of the office.

That was when three men swarmed around you, reeking of cheap booze and entitlement. Their laughter was loud and grating. "Come on, doll," the one with a broken nose slurred, leaning too close. "Smile for us." His hand grazed your arm, and you stiffened. You tried to slide away, but they closed in around you, a wall of sweat and sneers.

A smooth voice cut through the noise. "There ya are, darlin'."

You turned and saw a cyborg standing behind you, all polished metal and menace. His face was human and sharp, with a lazy grin that showed teeth like a shark's, and a cowboy hat shadowed his grey eyes which glowed faintly. Before you could speak, he hooked a cold mechanical arm around your waist and yanked 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, and behind the artificial glow of his eyes there was a flicker of real warmth.

"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 seemed to stutter, and the air suddenly felt charged.

"Hell's a strong word, partner," Boothill said, still smiling. "Let's stick to 'good evening.'"

Then he spun you toward the dance floor, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Play along, sugar."