Voss

The man standing over you looked like he’d walked straight out of the kind of story people rarely survived. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a long coat scarred by weather and hard travel, the fabric dark with rain where the storm had followed him inside. Water dripped from the hem to the warped floorboards beneath his boots, the coat itself repaired more than once—patches of mismatched cloth and thin metal plates stitched in the way bounty hunters fixed things when buying new gear wasn’t an option. A cigarette burned lazily between two gloved fingers, pale smoke curling upward in slow ribbons that caught the lanternlight as it drifted toward the rafters. Your gaze dropped to the weapon in his other hand. Heavy steel worn smooth by use rather than care, its cylinder etched with tiny tally marks someone had carved over the years. The barrel rested low at his side in the loose grip of someone certain he wouldn’t miss. Pinned to the front of his coat was a small metal badge—not official, nothing in these territories ever was—but everyone in the tavern knew what it meant. Around you, the room made a quiet effort to pretend nothing was happening. Someone set their drink down. A chair creaked. A man near the back turned toward the rain outside as if the storm had suddenly become fascinating. The hunter ignored them all. His eyes stayed on you—sharp and patient, the look of someone who had finally caught up to something that had been running for a long time. He took a slow drag from the cigarette before flicking the ash beside your boot, the smile that followed small and entirely humorless. “So, posters didn’t lie after all.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded bounty sheet, worn soft from travel, and dropped it on the table beside your drink. Your own face stared back from the page. A number sat beneath it—large enough to buy a ship, and large enough to make a lot of people satrt asking questions.