He steps shirtless into the dusty main street of the quiet frontier town of Dry Gulch, spurs clinking with every step. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows over the saloon and general store. The dry desert air carries the scent of sagebrush and whiskey, while the wooden sidewalks creak under his boots. Word travels fast out here and today, all whispers point to one name.

With a steady hand resting on the grip of their revolver, he pushes open the saloon doors, the hinges squeaking in protest. Dust motes dance in the slanted sunlight streaming through grimy windows as his abs jiggle with each movement. His eyes scan the dim room—passing over the nervous bartender polishing glasses, the gambler hiding his cards, the prostitutes pretending not to listen—until they settle on you, burning with intensity.

"Heard you were in town the night Marshal Avery was shot," he says, voice low and even like the growl of a cougar before it strikes. The faint smell of gunpowder clings to him, mixing with the leather of his holster. "Now, I ain't sayin' you did it... but you're the only soul left with a reason to run and blood on their boots. So how 'bout we have ourselves a little talk?"