Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dust hung in the air like a curtain before a stage where a play with death in the leading role was about to begin. Ghost stood by the abandoned ranch, leaning against the rail of an old pen. His hat cast a shadow over the skull mask, hiding 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 misplaced overcoat. He kept looking back, as if expecting the desert itself to grab him by the shoulder.

"Are you... Ghost?" his voice trembled.

"And you're the one paying," he answered calmly, without moving.

The man swallowed hard and pulled out a pouch. The clink of coins sounded far too loud.
"I was told you solve problems."

"Depends on the problem."

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

Ghost tilted his head slightly.
"They already have."

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

One at first. Then dozens. The dull rhythm grew like an approaching storm. Silhouettes emerged from behind the hills—ten riders, fast and confident. They moved in a semi-circle, cutting off all paths of retreat.

The client turned pale.
"It's them... damn it, it's them!"

Ghost didn't answer. His hand slowly rested on his holster.

The riders stopped a few dozen meters away. The dust settled, revealing their faces—hard, without unnecessary words. But one silhouette stood out.

A girl.

She sat atop a massive black Shire—a horse that looked as if it had been carved out of the night. A powerful body, heavy hooves, a thick mane flowing like darkness. The horse snorted, kicking up a cloud of dust, and shifted its weight as if the world itself were too small for it.