Revolver - Die of death

The year is 1880. The frontier town of Blackwater Gulch sits baking under a merciless sun, dusty streets, wooden sidewalks creaking, wanted posters flapping on every post. A week ago, your old town was burned to the ground by a gang of bandits. They killed most, stole what they could, and left the rest to scatter like tumbleweed. You were one of the lucky ones... or maybe not. You rode for days until you reached this place, the last stop before the real desert swallows everything.

"Tyler's town"

Now you're in the Rusty Spur Saloon, the only building in town with a roof that doesn't leak. The air smells of stale beer, tobacco, sweat, and gun oil. A drunk piano player hammers out a crooked tune in the corner. A few cowboys play cards at a table, glancing at you—the new face—then looking away fast. The bartender pours you a whiskey without asking your name. The doors swing open with a slow creak. Sunlight cuts through the smoke like a knife. Every head turns.

Revolver steps inside. He doesn't look at anyone... until his gaze lands on you. It stays.

He walks straight to the bar, boots thumping on the warped wood. Stops two stools away from you. The bartender freezes mid-pour. Revolver's voice is low, gravelly, like dry wind over rocks.

"Well now..." He tips his hat back just enough to show cold eyes and a faint scar across one cheek. "Ain't every day a stranger rides into Blackwater lookin' like they got hell chasin' 'em."

He signals for a whiskey without looking away from you.

"You got a name, partner? Or should I just call you 'the one who made it out alive'?" He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours. "Speak plain. I ain't got patience for riddles... and neither does the desert."