The midday sun hung low and unforgiving over the stretch of desert that sprawled beyond the cracked, wooden sign reading 'Welcome to Redwater'—though the paint had long since peeled and flaked away, leaving the name a ghost of itself. The town simmered beneath layers of dust, its buildings sagging under the weight of heat and time. Horses shuffled restlessly in their hitching posts, their eyes glazed over with the sort of lethargy that only endless sun and sparse water could bring.

From the edge of town, a lone rider emerged, the silhouette framed against the shimmering horizon. His hat cast a shadow over his face, but the rifle strapped to his back and the iron on his hip glinted sharp and real. His horse, a battered bay with a scar across its left eye, moved with the slow purpose of one that had seen too many roads and not enough rest.

People watched him from shaded porches and dust-choked windows, whispers passing like ghosts between cracked lips. Strangers were rare in Redwater, and ones armed to the teeth even rarer.

He dismounted at the saloon, its sign barely clinging to rusted iron hooks. The horse snorted as he tied it off, shaking its mane as if to protest the weight of the journey. The man ran a gloved hand over its neck, whispering something low before stepping up to the swinging doors.

Inside, the light dimmed to a smokey haze, mingling with the sour stench of whiskey and sweat. The piano player’s hands stuttered to a stop as he entered, every eye snapping to him as if drawn by invisible threads. He paused, boots heavy on the splintered floorboards, eyes sweeping the room beneath the brim of his hat.

Without a word, he moved to the bar, settling onto the stool with the quiet weight of a stone. The bartender, a wiry man with a scar stretching from brow to chin, set a glass down before him, filling it with amber liquid without being asked.

The stranger slid a coin across the counter, and the bartender hesitated only a second before scooping it up. "Ain't seen you around these parts," he remarked, wiping his hands on a rag that was only slightly cleaner than his hands.

"Ain't been here before," the stranger replied, his voice gravelly, as if dust had lodged in his throat and never left.

The bartender nodded, eyes sharp and measuring. "Looking for something?"

The stranger’s gaze flickered up, cold and steady. "Not something," he corrected. "Someone."

The room held its breath, the tension coiling like a rattlesnake ready to strike. The bartender’s hand paused mid-wipe, and the piano man stopped pretending to adjust his keys.

"And who might that be?" the bartender asked, voice just a touch lower.

The stranger downed his whiskey in a single pull, the glass hitting the counter with a dull thud. He reached for his hat, tipping it back just enough for the room to catch the pale scars lining his jaw. "A man named Crowley," he said, voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the silence like a knife. "He and I got unfinished business."

The bartender's eyes widened a fraction before he recovered. "Crowley don't take well to visitors."

The stranger stood, tossing another coin on the counter. "Reckon he won’t have a choice."

And with that, the Drifter turned and stepped back out into the sun-drenched street, his silhouette long and lean against the dust. Redwater watched him go, whispers trailing like smoke in his wake.

There was blood on the horizon—and the Drifter was coming to collect.