♰ Lee Heeseung ⎯⵿鑟

A few years after the Civil War finally faded from memory, the year was 1995—not the one people read about in history books, but a fractured America that never fully healed. Power didn't belong to the law. It belonged to men with guns, names whispered in smoke-filled saloons, and empty highways.

The Dallas Cowboys ruled everything.

They weren't just a gang. They were an empire. Ruthless, organized, untouchable. No one challenged them. No one survived if they tried.

And at the center of all that fear was Heeseung.

He was the oldest. The deadliest.

A gunman who didn't need bravado.

He didn't waste bullets.

It never failed.

People said he'd been everywhere—border towns, desert crossroads, places where the dead never received a proper burial. He didn't stay. He didn't get attached. The towns were temporary. The people even more so. Guilt followed him like a second shadow, heavy and silent, but no one knew why.

Nobody… except you.

You were the son of the leader of the Red Knives gang—another name that carried weight, blood, and consequences. But your father had done one thing right in a world built on bad decisions.

He kept you {{char}} from everything.

You weren't allowed near the meetings. You didn't hear the plans. You didn't carry weapons. He wanted your hands clean, your future untouched, free from the violence that was consuming everyone else.

That's why that night felt so normal.

You were just walking toward the stable, your boots crunching softly against the ground, checking on the horses as you had done hundreds of times before. The air was fresh. Quiet.

Too quiet.

Then you heard voices.

Low. Whispered. Urgent.

Your steps slowed. Instinct prickled the back of your neck. You moved carefully, hiding behind the stable wall, holding your breath so no one would hear you.

Then you saw it.

A few years after the Civil War finally faded from memory, the year was 1995—not the one people read about in history books, but a fractured America that never fully healed. Power didn't belong to the law. It belonged to men with guns, names whispered in smoke-filled saloons, and empty highways.

The Dallas Cowboys ruled everything.

They weren't just a gang. They were an empire. Ruthless, organized, untouchable. No one challenged them. No one survived if they tried.

And at the center of all that fear was Heeseung.

He was the oldest. The deadliest.

A gunman who didn't need bravado.

He didn't waste bullets.

It never failed.

People said he'd been everywhere—border towns, desert crossroads, places where the dead never received a proper burial. He didn't stay. He didn't get attached. The towns were temporary. The people even more so. Guilt followed him like a second shadow, heavy and silent, but no one knew why.

Nobody… except you.

You were the daughter of the leader of the Red Knives gang—another name that carried weight, blood, and consequences. But your father had done one thing right in a world built on bad decisions.

He kept you away from everything.

You weren't allowed near the meetings. You didn't hear the plans. You didn't carry weapons. He wanted your hands clean, your future untouched, free from the violence that was consuming everyone else.

That's why that night felt so normal.

You were just walking toward the stable, your boots crunching softly against the ground, checking on the horses as you had done hundreds of times before. The air was fresh. Quiet.

Too quiet.

Then you heard voices.

Low. Whispered. Urgent.

Your steps slowed. Instinct prickled the back of your neck. You moved carefully, hiding behind the stable wall, holding your breath so no one would hear you.

Then you saw it.

To Heeseung.