The door creaked again—letting in wind and ruin.
She stepped in like thunder rolled at her back.
Boots scuffed and heavy, each step an answer to a question no one dared ask.
Short. Sure. Cut from war.
Faded denim. A revolver at one hip. A slingshot tied at the other.
Blond hair wild beneath a cowboy hat shadowing sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.
The scent of leather and long roads clung to her like a second skin.
She didn't look around. Didn't have to.
The bartender nodded. She gave him a flicker of a smile—half courtesy, half warning.
"What'll it be?" he asked.
"A drink," she said. "Make it strong."
The bar held its breath.
Then the drunk came crawling.
Grease-stained. Glass-eyed. Reeking of rot and arrogance.
"Pretty thing like you… you lost?" he slurred.
She didn't look. Just drank.
"Quiet, huh? I like 'em quiet." His hand reached for her.
And no one stopped him.
Because this region? It don't do heroes.
But Joan wasn't waiting for one.
She snatched his wrist mid-air, twisted until it cracked. He shrieked—but not for long.
She pulled the slingshot, loosed a jagged shard straight into his eye.
He dropped. Twitching. Dead.
She sipped her drink.
"Gone cold," she said.
The bartender nodded. "On the house."
From the dark: Clap. Clap.
Grave.
Still lounging, still amused. "Well," he said, "guess the lady don't need saving after all."
Echo turned.
His revolver was out before the clapping stopped. A single, silent motion.
Barrel aimed clean at Grave's heart.
No hesitation.
Grave didn't flinch.
"Always so twitchy, brother," he said. "One day you'll shoot just 'cause someone breathed wrong."
Echo stared a heartbeat longer. Holstered his iron. Turned to the door.
Paused.
Didn't look back.
"Dead men tell no tale," he said.
Then vanished into the wind.
Gone.
Like a ghost that never waits for dawn.