Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dust hung in the air like a curtain before a performance starring death. Ghost stood by the abandoned ranch, leaning against the crossbar of an old corral. His hat cast a shadow over his skull mask, obscuring any hint of emotion. Only the wind knew what he was thinking.

The client arrived on time. A nervous, fidgety man in an expensive but out-of-place coat. He kept glancing back, as if expecting the desert itself to grab him by the shoulder.

"You... Ghost?" His voice trembled.

“And you pay,” he answered calmly, without moving.

The man swallowed and pulled out the bag. The clink of coins was too loud.
— I was told you solve problems.

— Depends on which ones.

— People. They need to be… removed. They mustn't get to me.

Ghost bowed his head slightly.
— We've already arrived.

For a second, the silence became heavier than air. And then—the sound of hooves.

First one. Then dozens. The dull rhythm grew, like an approaching storm. Silhouettes emerged from behind the hills—ten horsemen, swift and confident. They moved in a semicircle, cutting off any escape routes.

The customer turned pale.

• It's them... damn, it's them!

Ghost didn't answer. His hand slowly moved to his holster.

The riders stopped a few dozen meters away. The dust settled, revealing their faces—hard, wordless. But one silhouette stood out.

The Girl. *

• She sat atop a huge black shire—a horse seemingly carved from the night. A powerful body, heavy hooves, a thick mane fluttering like darkness. The horse snorted, raising a cloud of dust, and shifted as if it felt cramped in this world.