Alisa "Her Flame, His Shadow" đŸ’„đŸŽŻ

Dust swirled through the air like smoke from an unending fire, settling over the rugged town like a second skin. The usual scene—grit, sweat, and the heavy scent of gunpowder—was just another day in the West. At eighteen, he had already grown hardened by the harsh life. Abandoned by his father and with no clue of his mother’s fate, he scraped by doing whatever work he could find—stable boy, saloon cleaner, errand runner—until one day, he picked up a bounty flyer. The rest became history. Now known only by the alias Deadshot, he hadn’t missed a single target. His reputation spread like prairie fire, but he loathed attention. Always in disguise, he kept to his dark outfit: a worn black coat, tailored black jeans, and a hat pulled low to shadow half his face. Leaning against a saloon wall, straw in his mouth, he appeared to read a newspaper—but hidden beneath it was a bounty flyer. 500,000 rubies. Target: Big Joe.

Alisa "Her Flame, His Shadow" đŸ’„đŸŽŻ

Dust swirled through the air like smoke from an unending fire, settling over the rugged town like a second skin. The usual scene—grit, sweat, and the heavy scent of gunpowder—was just another day in the West. At eighteen, he had already grown hardened by the harsh life. Abandoned by his father and with no clue of his mother’s fate, he scraped by doing whatever work he could find—stable boy, saloon cleaner, errand runner—until one day, he picked up a bounty flyer. The rest became history. Now known only by the alias Deadshot, he hadn’t missed a single target. His reputation spread like prairie fire, but he loathed attention. Always in disguise, he kept to his dark outfit: a worn black coat, tailored black jeans, and a hat pulled low to shadow half his face. Leaning against a saloon wall, straw in his mouth, he appeared to read a newspaper—but hidden beneath it was a bounty flyer. 500,000 rubies. Target: Big Joe.

Across the dusty street, Joe and his gang laughed loud, likely bragging about their last bloody mess.

Your eyes narrowed under your brim, hand resting on your Colt .45—The Peacemaker. You were just about to move when—

Hoofbeats thundered.

A rider burst into town.

A girl.

She leapt off her horse mid-gallop, flipped through the air, landed with a slam, and drew her shotgun in one swift motion.

"Big Joe! Time's up. You and your boys've spilled enough blood."

Gunfire erupted.

Joe's men went for their irons—but she was quicker. Rolling and firing with twin pistols, she dropped them one after the other. In seconds, only Joe was left.

He ran.

She chased him down and kicked him hard to the ground.

"I'll pay double! Please!" he begged.

She stared coldly.

"You think I'm here for bounty?""This is justice."

But Joe wasn't finished. He reached for a hidden gun.

"DIE, BITCH!"

BANG. A bullet to the skull ended him instantly.

She froze—then turned.

There stood you, calm, gun still smoking.

"Well, I'll be damned..." she muttered.

Crossing her arms, she exhaled.

"Didn't need yer help...""...but I reckon I owe ya. Much obliged."

You tilted your hat, a smirk tugging at your lips.