PROLOGUE
The saloon door *didn’t creak open* —it *slammed* , shaking the damn floorboards.
Every head turned.
Dust curled up from the impact, twisting through the smoke-filled air, catching in the amber glow of the hanging lanterns. The scent of *whiskey, sweat, and regret* mingled together, thick enough to choke a man.
And then— *Jingle Bell stepped in.*
Boots scuffed against the wooden floor, *slow, deliberate* .
Spurs *jingled* , not loud, not rushed—just enough to remind everyone in that room who had arrived.
He wasn’t a man who *filled silence* —he *owned it* .
The bartender froze, rag dangling from his fingers, caught between wiping a glass and making himself scarce. The *stable boy* , slouched at the bar, stiffened slightly—but didn’t turn.
Smart kid. He knew better than to look too long.
Five ragged men followed Jingle Bell inside— *his crew* , all crooked, twitchy, carrying the kind of nervous energy of men who worked for someone *a little too dangerous* .
But Jingle Bell?
He wasn’t nervous.
His mismatched eyes— *one blue, one green* —swept over the room, lazily but *sharp* , like a wolf sniffing out its next meal. His scarred lip curled into a grin, the kind that *wasn’t friendly, but made people smile anyway—just out of fear* .
He kicked a chair out of his way, didn’t bother looking where it landed.
Then—he chuckled.
Slow. *Mocking. Like he had all the time in the world.*
_"Well, well, well… ain't this a cozy little hole in the ground?"_
No one answered.
Not yet.
Jingle Bell clicked his tongue.
_"I don’t suppose any of you fine gentlemen happen to have seen a man sittin’ around lookin’ like a kicked dog? Big fella, stupid-lookin’, probably tryin’ real hard not to be noticed?"_
Silence.
Then—his eyes landed on *Eli* .
The man in the corner. Hat pulled low. Whiskey untouched. *Not hiding. Just waiting.*
Jingle Bell’s grin stretched wider.
_"Now, ain’t that something? I tell a story about a stupid-lookin’ fella, and wouldn’t you know it—here he is."_
Still, *Eli didn’t move* .
Jingle Bell *liked that* .
Liked men who *thought* they had a chance.
He pulled up a chair, dragged it out *slow* , letting the wooden legs scream against the floor, taking his time to sit.
_"I heard a funny thing today, Eli,"_ he said, voice easy, teasing.
No response.
Jingle Bell smirked.
_"They say you’re dangerous. You believe that?"_
Eli reached for his glass— *slow, calculated* .
Jingle Bell’s fingers *tapped against the table* , rhythmic, *like a ticking clock* .
_"Go on. Drink it."_
Eli paused.
The *stable boy shifted* , watching from the bar, but smart enough not to interrupt.
Jingle Bell leaned forward, lazy but *deadly serious* .
_"See, I got a theory, Eli."_
He turned the glass in front of him, studying the liquid like it *held secrets* .
_"A man’s reputation don’t mean a damn thing if he don’t back it up."_
Silence.
The bartender held his breath. The stable boy didn’t blink.
Jingle Bell *smiled like he knew something nobody else did* .
_"So I figured—if you were really dangerous… you’d have killed me by now."_
Then— *he picked up Eli’s whiskey.*
Lifted it.
Unbuckled his belt.
And— *pissed in it.*
*Right there.*
*Right in front of everyone.*
The *sound* was *obscene* , the act *disrespectful beyond words* .
The bartender flinched.
The stable boy *gasped* .
Jingle Bell— *he just laughed.*
_"Now, Eli,"_ he said, setting the glass back down— *still warm, still full, still reeking of insult* .
_"You gonna drink that?"_
*Eli raised his head.*
Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just _slow._
And that was when the mistake became clear.
The wrong man had been underestimated.
His face came into view, bruised and cut, but *calm* —the kind of calm that comes when a man knows exactly how this will end.
And then, he looked at Jingle Bell.
Not with anger. Not with fear.
Just *amusement* .
His lip curled, barely, like he’d just heard the dumbest joke of his life.
Then, *he leaned closer* .
Close enough for Jingle Bell to feel the warmth of his breath—close enough for the entire saloon to freeze in place.
_"You're looking at me like I’m your sweet old grandma,"_ Eli murmured, voice low, like a growl buried beneath words.
_"But guess what?"_
A pause— *too long.*
_"I ain't."_
And _then_ —violence.
Jingle Bell barely had time to blink before Eli’s hand _snapped_ around his wrist, *twisting* in a brutal, merciless wrench.
The crack was _sharp_ —bone torn from proper alignment, *rendered useless in an instant* .
Jingle Bell *grunted* , pain flashing in his mismatched eyes, but Eli was already moving.
His free hand dipped— *not* for the revolver.
*For something worse.*
From the holster at his boot, he *ripped free* a weapon built for brutality.
Not a duelist’s gun. Not something elegant.
A *stick-boom* .
Short-barreled. Loud. _Disgustingly_ powerful.
*And it went off before anyone could react.*
The man nearest to Eli *screamed* , but the sound barely lasted— *half his body was gone* before he could even hit the ground.
Blood sprayed in heavy, wet arcs, catching the lantern light, painting the saloon in carnage.
Another tried to reach for his pistol.
*Eli didn’t let him.*
The next blast *tore through his stomach* , spilling the remains onto the whiskey-stained floor.
A third man tried to *run* .
Eli put *two bullets* in his spine before he made it two steps.
And the fourth—
The fourth was the fool.
The fourth *charged with a knife* .
Eli had his gun raised, already *waiting* —but before he could pull the trigger, the *stable boy struck first frowning like he had just saved Eli* .
The whiskey bottle *crashed* against the attacker's skull, shattering into shards, sending the man *crumbling* before he could even process his own mistake.
Silence *followed* .
Heavy. *Suffocating.*
Because only *one* was left alive.
*Jingle Bell.*
On the floor. Crawling backward through the gore, through the *unrecognizable remains* of what used to be his crew.
His breath was *uneven* .
His wounded hand *trembled* .
And Eli—
Eli was *coming for him.*
Slow. *Deliberate.*
No rush. No mercy.
Every other soul had *fled the saloon* —the bartender, the spectators,only God knew why the stable boy was still standing there.
Only Eli and Jingle Bell remained.
Only *the insult* remained.
*The glass.*
Eli bent, grasped the whiskey glass—still *tainted* , still *reeking of disgrace* .
He turned it in his hand, studying its contents like he was deciding whether he _should_ be disgusted.
Then, *he crouched* .
Knee to wood.
Voice *dangerous, calm, absolute* .
_"Let’s find out who the real coward is now, shall we?"_
Jingle Bell *swallowed hard.*
Eli shoved the glass closer.
_"Drink it._
_"Or I put a bullet through your damn skull right now."_
For the first time since stepping into the saloon, Jingle Bell *hesitated* .
His fingers trembled. His mismatched eyes flicked between Eli’s gun and the swirling, piss-tainted whiskey.
And then—he *grabbed it* .
The glass *clinked* against his teeth as he downed the *whole* thing in one desperate gulp.
