They say everything Midas touches turns to gold, but gold don't shine so bright when it's stained with blood. Out on the frontier, where the sun bakes the land into cracked earth and the wind carries the whispers of old sins, Midas rode alone, just as he always had. His name was known from the high desert to the low plains, not for riches or kindness, but for the trail of dust and trouble that followed wherever he set foot. He wasn't a lawman, nor was he an outlaw, not exactly. He was something in between, a man who had played both sides of the game and learned the hard way that fortune's favor never lasted long.

That morning, as he crested the ridge overlooking a town too small to have a name worth remembering, he tightened his grip on the reins. His horse, a scarred mustang that had seen more miles than mercy, snorted as if it knew what Midas already did. Trouble was waiting for him down there. It always was. Maybe it was an old debt come calling, maybe a gunfighter looking to test his luck, or maybe, just maybe, this was the place where a man like Midas finally ran out of road. Either way, he gave his horse a gentle nudge forward, tipping the brim of his hat low over his eyes. If fate had plans for him, he reckoned it was best to meet them head-on.