The Drifter’s boots kicked up little spirals of dust as he made his way down the crooked main street. Redwater felt like a place that time had forgotten, where memories rotted like the wood on the storefronts. His eyes, sharp and restless, scanned every shadow and every crack in the worn-out facades. He didn’t need trouble, but he was prepared to greet it if it showed up.

A group of children darted across his path, laughing as they chased a rusted tin can down the dirt road. They stopped when they saw him, eyes wide with curiosity and just a flicker of fear. The Drifter tipped his hat slightly, and they scattered, whispers carried on the wind. He could make out fragments—Crowley, the mine, gunfight—but it was gone before he could piece it together.

Ahead, the sheriff's office loomed, its windows caked with dust and iron bars rusting at the seams. A man lounged on the porch, his chair tipped back and his hat pulled low.Sheriff hal granger on his badge. As the Drifter approached, the man straightened, spitting tobacco off to the side.

"You lost, stranger?" the sheriff asked, voice heavy with a drawl. His hand rested lazily on the grip of his revolver, but there was an edge to his gaze, sharp and watchful.

The Drifter stopped, his shadow stretching long across the sheriff's boots. "Not lost," he replied. "Just lookin' to find Crowley."

The sheriff's face tightened. "Crowley don’t take kindly to strangers."

The Drifter’s eyes didn’t waver. "Seems I’m not much for kindness."

The sheriff smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Well, good luck to ya. If you find him, be sure to send my regards."

The Drifter tipped his hat, moving on. The sheriff watched him disappear down the road, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Redwater had its secrets. The Drifter aimed to dig them out—one bullet at a time.

He wandered deeper into Redwater, his steps deliberate, eyes catching every flicker of movement. Storefronts sat hollow and quiet; a few curious faces peeked out from cracked windows only to vanish like ghosts when his gaze found them.

The saloon’s doors flapped open again as he pushed inside, dust swirling up around his boots. This time, the chatter stopped entirely. He made his way to a corner table, settling down with his back to the wall. A waitress—young, tired, with eyes that seemed older than her years—approached him.

"Whiskey," he said simply, sliding a coin across the splintered wood of the table.

She nodded without a word, returning moments later with a glass and a bottle. She poured it out and moved away quickly, like she couldn’t stand to be too close to him for long. The Drifter watched her leave, then took a slow sip, the burn steady and familiar.

The room remained tense, conversations resuming only in murmurs. He took his time, letting the whiskey settle, before a shadow broke the haze of cigar smoke and sunlight pouring through the windows. A heavy-set man in a worn duster coat ambled up, settling across from him without an invitation.

"You the one askin’ about Crowley?" the man asked, voice gravelly and low.

The Drifter didn’t blink. "Maybe."

The man grinned, revealing a row of crooked teeth. "Depends on who’s askin’, I suppose. Name's Burke. Sheriff tells me you’re new to Redwater."

"Seems I am," the Drifter replied, taking another sip.

Burke leaned back, eyeing him with curiosity and just a hint of menace. "Crowley’s not exactly friendly to strangers. Especially ones askin’ questions."

The Drifter’s hand rested on the table, his fingers brushing the rim of his glass. "Lucky for me, I’m not here to make friends."

Burke chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. "That right? Well, you got a death wish or just a bad sense of direction?"

The Drifter’s eyes glinted beneath the brim of his hat. "Maybe a bit of both."

Burke’s smile faded. He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "If you’re serious about findin’ Crowley, you best be ready for what comes next. He runs the mines, and he don’t take kindly to folk stickin’ their noses where they don’t belong."

The Drifter finished his whiskey, setting the glass down carefully. "Seems I’m always where I don’t belong."

Burke’s eyes tightened. "Then you and Redwater might get along just fine. Or it’ll be your grave."

The Drifter stood, tipping his hat. "Appreciate the advice."

Burke watched him go, eyes narrowed with calculation. As the Drifter stepped back out into the street, the whispers picked up again, following him like shadows. He ignored them, his eyes set on the distant outline of the mine just visible from the edge of town.

The deeper he walked, the more the town's decay became apparent—windows boarded up, shops abandoned, sand collecting in doorways like unwanted memories. A sense of dread hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Redwater wasn't just a town—it was a graveyard that hadn't quite realized it was dead.

He stopped by the blacksmith, watching the man hammer away at an iron rail. Sparks flew, lighting up the smith's sweat-covered face. The Drifter approached. "You know Crowley?"

The hammer stopped mid-swing. The blacksmith glanced up, eyes hardening. "Why?"

The Drifter shrugged. "Got some unfinished business."

The blacksmith spat to the side. "Best leave it unfinished. Folks who go lookin’ for Crowley don’t come back whole—if they come back at all."

The Drifter's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I’m not lookin’ to come back."

The blacksmith said nothing, but his gaze lingered, watching as the Drifter walked away. The whispers followed him still, growing louder as he neared the edge of town, where the dirt path split into two—one leading to the mine, the other back to nowhere.

The Drifter turned toward the mine, dust kicking up behind him. It was time to see what Redwater was hiding.