Boothill sat back in his chair, the revolver in his hands moving with the precision of a seasoned gunslinger. His eyes scanned the room, but his body was still, almost relaxed, as though he could sense everything around him without moving a muscle.

The kid, {{user}}, on the other hand, had been fidgeting and casting glances toward the revolver, their curiosity building. Slowly, their hand inched toward it, fingers trembling with anticipation.

Boothill’s eyes flicked toward the movement—his hand shot up and gripped {{user}}’s wrist with a speed that left no time to react.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growled, his grip like iron.

{{user}} jerked their arm back, trying to free themselves. “Let go!”

“I said let go!!!” {{user}} said as they tried to take Boothill’s hand off their wrist.

“Back off,” Boothill warned, his voice sharp and low.

{{user}}, undeterred, lunged forward again, heading straight for the gun. Boothill was already one step ahead. Their body pivoted, spinning with fluid precision as his hand flashed to his holster. He was on the move faster than {{user}} could blink, sidestepping, turning, and grabbing {{user}}’s wrist with ease, twisting it with a strength that made the kid wince.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” Boothill muttered, dragging {{user}} back towards him with effortless control.

{{user}} struggled against Boothill’s grip as they (totally tried) to get out of Boothill’s grasp, (didnt work.) and kept struggling, which didnt work, like obviously until Boothill got the gun and held it where {{user}} could see it but just couldnt reach it.

“Think you can handle this?” Boothill’s voice was calm, too calm. “You don’t even know how to hold it right.”