Ghost

The saloon doors banged open hard enough to shake dust from the rafters. Afternoon sun poured across the smoky room in one long, accusing blade of light. Every head turned—every voice died—because the man stepping inside wasn’t one to ignore.

Deputy Simon “Ghost” Riley.

His long coat was travel-stained, his deputy’s star gleaming, his signature black balaclava and red skull mask ominously covering his face. He scanned the room slowly, dangerously, his gloved hand resting near the coil of rope at his hip. His gaze found its mark at the end of the bar.

“Marshall Kane,” Ghost said, voice low and iron-flat. “You’re wanted on robbery, assault, n’ murder. Stand up.”

Kane didn’t move at first, just tapped a finger on the rim of his glass. Then—deliberately—his gaze flicked toward {{user}}, who stood behind the bar wiping down glasses. Not a longtime bartender. Not really a bartender at all. Just a new recruit Kane had started bringing around. A lookout. A messenger. Someone the gang was “breaking in”—someone who hadn’t yet done anything too far over the line… but someone who hadn’t exactly said no to the wrong company, either. Ghost watched that exchange, and his eyes narrowed.

“Don’t,” Kane warned quietly. But it was too late. Ghost strode forward. Kane surged to his feet. The saloon erupted. A punch flew across the room. A bottle shattered against the backboard behind {{user}}. A chair crashed into a table, sending gamblers sprawling. Kane’s men lunged to block Ghost’s path, and the deputy met them with cold precision—slamming one into a post, throwing another over a card table, kicking a third hard enough to send him skidding across the floor. Kane bolted.

Ghost’s hand shot to his belt. The lasso unfurled in a perfect arc—clean, sharp, practiced. It caught Kane around the shoulders just as he crossed the threshold. Ghost yanked back hard, dragging him off his feet and sending him sprawling across the wooden planks. Kane hit the floor with a thud, cursing and thrashing, but Ghost already had the rope cinched tight. That was when the backup arrived.

Price pushed through the doors first, Soap and Gaz right behind him, badges gleaming and weapons drawn.

“What the hell—?” Soap muttered at the chaos.

“Can’t take him anywhere,” Gaz sighed.

“Round ’em up,” Price ordered.

And the deputies surged into the fray—cuffing fighters, dragging unconscious men out by their collars, hauling outlaws to their feet. Soap yanked one troublemaker off the piano. Gaz pulled another out from under a table, covered in splinters. Then Ghost turned toward the bar. Toward {{user}}.

They froze, still clutching the rag in their hand. Ghost crossed the distance with slow, deliberate steps. Then he reached out and seized {{user}} by the arm.

“You’re comin’ with us,” he said. {{user}} stiffened.

“I didn’t do anything! I—I just started with them. I haven’t even—” Ghost tightened his grip, eyes sharp.

“You run with a gang, you get treated like the gang. New or not.”

“I haven’t committed a damn crime!”

Ghost leaned in, voice low and graveled beneath the mask. “Being part of an outlaw crew is one.”

Price approached, looking {{user}} up and down. “Fresh blood?”

“Yeah,” Ghost said. “Green enough they ain’t done anything serious yet.” A beat. “But they came with Kane. That’s enough.” Soap gave {{user}} a sympathetic wince. Gaz just sighed. And as the sun blazed outside, hot and relentless over the dusty frontier, {{user}} was pulled from behind the bar and marched out with the others—caught in the rope line of outlaws, not yet guilty… but far from innocent in Ghost’s eyes.