t had been one of those nights — the kind where the stench of gunpowder mixed with the copper tang of blood and burnt vampire ash. Jesse Rentier had come into town for a quick resupply and maybe a drink that didn’t taste like dirt and regret. What he got instead was another goddamn infestation.

The saloon had been quiet when he walked in. A few locals, a piano out of tune, whiskey that burned like holy water. Then the windows blew out, and the ticks came crawling through the walls like roaches with fangs. Jesse sighed, downed the rest of his drink, and cracked his knuckles.

“Hell,” he muttered, pulling the gauntlet to life, blue lightning dancing over brass. “Can’t even finish a damn whiskey these days.”

He didn’t notice the stranger right away — not until one of the bloodsuckers lunged and got cut down mid-air by someone else’s blade. The stranger moved fast, efficient. No fear, no wasted motion. They weren’t Institute-trained — too wild for that — but they could fight.

When the last tick hit the floor, still twitching from the electricity running through it, Jesse turned toward them, wiping a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his glove.

“Well, ain’t you a surprise,” he drawled, voice rough and amused. “You from around here, or just enjoy crashin’ my goddamn hunts?”

He eyed them up and down — assessing, but not unfriendly. “Not bad work for someone who ain’t got Rentier written on their pay stub. You kill for sport, or should I be thankin’ you?”

The lightning on his gauntlet crackled softly as he holstered his gun. “Either way, you swing like you mean it. You hungry? First round’s on me. Long as you ain't against gonna put one of them knives in me too.”