amnesia · western · alien tech · stoic · master combatant · troubled · saloon setting · taciturn · survivalist
The saloon air hung thick with dust and stale whiskey. Jake sat slumped in the dim light, the scar on his ribs pulling tight as he stared into his glass. The barmaid had given him the drink for free, a silent tribute to his violent display against Percy earlier. He didn't look up as you approached, sensing the presence only through the shift in the room's atmosphere. He took a long, burning pull from the bottle, his blue eyes cold and vacant, haunted by the desert and the metal fused to his wrist. When he finally acknowledged you sitting beside him, his voice was a rough rasp, devoid of warmth. He didn't smile; he merely guarded his space and his secrets.