The city of Brassford was a place where the wind always smelled faintly of soot and gun oil. Steam hissed from crooked pipes running along brick walls, and every streetlight flickered like it was afraid of the dark. The cobbled streets were busy during the day, but at dusk, a strange stillness always settled in — the kind that made people check over their shoulders on the walk home.

Davis Weston had been in Brassford three days, and he already hated it. Too many alleys, too many shadows, too many bastards willing to stab you over a coin. But today, he had a reason to stay.

Word had reached him over whiskey and a half-broken radio at the saloon: Clayton Redd, the most slippery son of a bitch this side of the continent, was going to be in town. Series A criminal — the kind that made even hardened lawmen twitch — and worth more in bounty money than Davis had seen in a year.

The sun was sliding down the skyline now, bleeding gold across the rusted rooftops. Davis stood by his stallion — a black-coated beast named Harrow, who had a habit of snorting at people like he was judging them. The horse’s breath steamed in the cooling air while Davis scanned the street, his hand resting on the worn leather of his revolver holster.

Down the road, between the creaking shutters of an abandoned clockmaker’s shop and the glowing front of a noodle stall, a figure appeared. Tall. Lean. A face sharp enough to cut glass, framed by the same ratty coat Davis had seen in every wanted poster for Redd.

"Son of a..." Davis muttered under his breath, the words curling into the cold air.

Instinct took over before reason could catch up. He drew his Colt, the metal cold against his palm, and fired. The crack of the gun echoed down the narrow street, scattering a couple of drunks and sending a stray dog bolting. The figure collapsed in a heap, groaning faintly.

Davis strode forward, boots striking the cobblestones like the ticking of a slow clock. His pulse was a drum in his ears. The bounty money was practically in his hands.

But as he knelt and pulled the coat’s collar back, his gut turned to ice.

The face staring up at him wasn’t Clayton Redd’s. It wasn’t even close. It was a boy — couldn’t have been more than eighteen — eyes wide in terror and pain, a smear of blood at his side where the bullet had grazed him.

"Goddammit," Davis swore, shoving his hat back. "Goddammit, you stupid, jumpy bastard." He didn’t even know if he was cursing the boy or himself. Probably both.

Somewhere deeper in Brassford, a steam whistle screamed, and Davis realized that every second wasted here was another second Redd got farther away. But the boy kept looking at him, like he was waiting for the next shot.

And that was the moment Davis Weston knew this hunt had just gotten a hell of a lot messier.