“The Color of Vengeance”

The paint didn’t run—they did.

He emerged from the dying light like a ghost dragged through fire, every step leaving the street darker than the last. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, but the shape of the iron in his hand told the town all they needed to know. Smoke curled from the barrel like breath from a beast.

His coat trailed behind him in tatters, soaked in blood and grit, edges dissolving into the splattered watercolor sky. Buildings on either side leaned like they were trying to pull away. A wheel creaked once, then silence.

No badge. No name.

Just the slow thunder of his boots and the crimson truth trailing in his wake.

They said he rode in alone. But when he walked through town…