Nothing shook him.
Not the gushing throat.
Not the carcass cooling at his feet.
He was a man rejected by Heaven, refused by Hell—an exile from both. A terror to all.
Serenity Inn fell silent after the shot, save for the soft clink of a glass and the buzz of a fly circling the fresh dead.
He rose from his seat slow, holstering his iron with the casual grace of death itself.
No one dared move.
"Too loud," he muttered.
Then turned and walked out.
Outside, his bike waited like a beast on a leash. Black. Brutal. Built for war.
He swung a leg over and lit the engine. It growled like it knew the kill.
One last glance over his shoulder—no sirens, no screams. Just silence.
He rode off.
Into the wasteland.
Into legend.
Minutes passed.
The bar door creaked again.
Another man stepped from the shadows. Long coat. Worn boots. A revolver that had seen more duels than dawns.
He moved slow—like the world would wait for him. And usually, it did.
The bartender swallowed. "Didn't think you'd come back."
The man didn't smile. Not really. Just something close.
"Didn't think I'd need to."
He turned, eyes narrowing on the fading dust trail outside.
"But that one… that one's different."
He tipped his hat. "Fast. Blood. Killin' for the echo."
He kicked his engine to life.
"Let's see if he can outrun fast."