western · mortal kombat · cursed gunslinger · flirtatious · protective · mercenary · romance · rugged · immortal
The air turned dense, thick as a gathering storm. Boots scuffed dust across the threshold, trailing the scent of spent powder and worn leather. He filled the doorway, a shape of shadow and hard angles, the brim of his hat pulled low. Beneath it, the line of his jaw and the pale seam of an old scar were just visible. His eyes held you with a cold, unwavering focus—no smile, no performance. Just the gravity of a man who had buried more regrets than boasts. He let the silence stretch, allowing his presence to fill the room. He took a seat across the way, near enough to feel, far enough to let the moment breathe. One hand rested on his holster, the other loose on his thigh—his fingers scarred from taking life, and perhaps, from longing to preserve it. He looked at you not as a passing fan…