The Shadetown of Lethe loomed under an oppressive, blood-red sky, bathing the landscape in a sickly crimson glow. A chaotic sprawl of ramshackle buildings clung precariously to the dark mountain slopes—a haphazard collection of faded concrete and rusting corrugated metal. Flat rooftops were cluttered with saloons, gun shops, and laundry lines, every nook and cranny suggesting lives lived on a razor's edge.

  The narrow, winding alleys below were the true pulse of Lethe. Amidst deep red shadows, black marketeers haggled over illicit goods, their hushed voices barely audible above the distant groans of unseen machinery. Mercenaries in weathered gear leaned against crooked doorways, their eyes sharp, scanning for threats. The air was heavy—thick with cheap liquor, stale smoke, and the metallic tang of desperation. It was a place where fortunes were made and lost in the blink of a blood-red eye.

  Corris Lee and Kaplan moved through the center of the crowd, their gear-steeds following obediently like mechanical shadows. Kaplan’s hand hovered near her coat flap, her fingers twitching toward her holster. Corris reached over, his hand firm as he unpinned her coat, ensuring her draw was clear but her posture remained casual.

  “Keep cool," he hissed. "You’re supposed to be among your kind. Look calm and collected. You’re just a drifter with me. Got it?”

  Kaplan looked disheveled, her hair a wild mess, her eyes wide as she scanned the crowd. She had never been among the barbarians before. She noticed a chilling absence: there were no children. Only men and women exchanging fire flares, specialized munitions, and unbranded steel.

  They reached the "Long Walk"—a massive wall of wanted posters that served as the town’s curriculum. Here, a bounty wasn't a mark of shame; it was a badge of honor. Corris didn't flinch as they passed a hand-drawn likeness of the Wolf of Red Mesa. It was a rough sketch, but the eyes were unmistakably his.

  They passed the sheriff’s office, but Atwater was nowhere to be seen. Nearby, a burst of laughter erupted from a saloon called The Tin Ten. Hard-eyed bounty hunters leaned against the porch, throwing heavy stares at Corris as he approached. Then, he caught it—the scent of rot and unwashed wool that cut through the city's stench.

  “No fucking way,” he muttered.

  “Now is not the time to get a drink,” Kaplan said, her voice tight as she watched him veer toward the saloon doors.

  “Sure it is. I’m parched. Stay out here. Hang across the street and watch my back.”

  “Seriously? Your face is all over the boards. You’re walking into a bounty hunter haven? You aren’t thinking right.” Kaplan stepped in front of him, planting her boots.

  Corris ground his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking with a suppressed impulse to simply shove her aside. He flexed his fingers into a fist, then forced them to relax.

  “I smell Caleb Grimsby in the Tin Ten.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Kaplan blinked, incredulous. “Wait. How? We’re surrounded by sweat and gunpowder. How the hell could you—”

  “I don’t have time for this shit, Kaplan. Back me up or take your ass back home to the Judge.”

  “Ugh, you make things so difficult, Corris Lee.”

  “Just be ready to back my play. It’ll come fast.”

  “Fine. I’ll be across the street. Is there a sign I should be looking for?”

  Corris paused at the swinging doors, the red light of the sky catching the scars on his knuckles.

  “Fleeing people is a start.”

  “You can't take on the whole saloon Corris.”

  “Watch me. Now move your ass.”

  I spun Kaplan around and smacked her on the ass. She hobbled toward. Grumbling under her breath. I knew she was upset. I didn't need her agreement. Just her compliance. When she didn't turn to give me lip I rolled my heads around the stretch my neck. I felt the tension build.

  “Watch me take on the whole damn saloon.”

  I stepped onto the porch of the Tin Ten. The wood groaned under his weight, a slow, tortured sound that seemed to quiet the muffled laughter coming from inside. The bounty hunters leaning against the railing shifted, their hands dropping to their holsters, eyes tracking the man who looked remarkably like the "Wolf" on the wall.

  Corris ignored them. His nostrils flared again. Beneath the cheap rye and the stale tobacco of the room beyond, the scent of Caleb Grimsby was a screaming siren. It was the smell of a gutter—cloying, stagnant, and unmistakable.

  I pushed through the swinging doors.

  The interior of the Tin Ten was a cavern of amber light and thick, swirling smoke. Dozens of faces—scarred, weathered, and hungry—turned toward the entrance. The piano player stopped mid-chord, the silence expanding like a held breath. At the far end of the bar, huddled over a glass of murky liquid, was a man in a tattered, filth-caked duster.

  Caleb Grimsby.

  I didn't reach for my gun. Not yet. I walked toward the bar, the sound of his boots echoing in the sudden vacuum of the room. Every eye in the place was on him. Every hand was itching for a payout.

  "I'm looking for a man who smells like a dead dog," I said aloud. My voice carried to every corner of the room.

  Across the street, Kaplan watched through the scope of her rifle, her breath hitching. She saw the silhouettes inside start to move, rising from their tables like a tide of steel.

  The bartender, a thick-necked man with eyes like dull pennies, froze with a rag in his hand. He looked at me, then darted his eyes toward the posters he likely had tacked behind the bar. "I don't know any Caleb..."

  Before he could finish the lie, I open-hand slapped him. The crack of palm against cheek sounded like a pistol shot in the silence. It split his lip instantly, the force knocking him backward into the rows of cheap whiskey bottles. I didn't let him fall. I reached over the mahogany, grabbed a handful of his sweat-stained shirt, and hauled him back upright until we were nose-to-nose.

  “Say again?” I demanded.

  The bartender trembled, the copper scent of his own blood filling his mouth. He didn't say another word. He just gave a small, jerky nod to his left.

  In the massive, gold-framed mirror behind the bar—spotted with age and tobacco spit—I saw them. Tucked into the far corner, shrouded by the thickest part of the smoke, sat Caleb Grimsby. He was flanked by four men who looked like they’d been pulled from the same gutter. They weren't laughing anymore. They were rising, their hands disappearing beneath the table.

  “Let it bleed,” I told the bartender, releasing his shirt and pointing at his ruined lip. I didn't look at him again. I kept my eyes on that mirror, watching the reflection of the monsters behind me.

  Across the street, Kaplan’s finger tightened on the trigger. Through the glass of the saloon’s front window, she saw the "tide of steel" finally break. The men at the tables were standing up, and the Grimsby crew in the corner was drawing iron.

  “Corris, move,” she whispered to the empty air, her crosshairs settling on the man closest to the bar.