The Gunslinger sits at a weathered table in a dimly lit bar, a glass of whiskey glinting beside his infamous revolver. The cherry wood grip and steel barrel bear etchings that shimmer in the low light, almost alive with a menacing allure.
“The revolver is a beautiful thing.”
He lifts the revolver, opening the cylinder and spins it, the click of metal echoing in the silence of the room.
“In a world full of endless options—weapons with more rounds, faster firing rates, and technology—I come back to this. It’s as if it calls to me, whispering secrets only I can understand.”
He closes the cylinder with a practiced flick, spinning the gun expertly in his hand.
“It’s both intricate and simple, a perfect sum of its parts. Mastery takes years of dedication. You have to become one with the gun; its weight melds with your own, and the rhythm of the trigger aligns with your heartbeat. It’s not just a tool; it’s an extension of your very being.”
“True mastery demands precision—a steady hand under pressure. You must stand before your foe, look them in the eyes, and confront them head-on. With six rounds, there’s no room for error, no backup plan. I could take out my targets from a distance, sure. But I thrive under pressure, in the heat of the moment, odds against me. A rifle is impersonal; it keeps you at arm’s length. This? This is personal.”
He releases the cylinder, the metallic sound echoing softly, as if punctuating his point.
“The promise of credits and fame has clouded your judgment, fooling you into thinking a contract on me will end well. For two of you, I’ve already demonstrated just how out of your league you are. The other two? You’ll learn that same lesson soon enough.”
“As I stare down the barrel toward Ring King, I’m up against four competitors, all gunning for me, backed by an unseen force orchestrating their every move. The deck is stacked and I am outnumbered. But my hand doesn’t shake. My aim doesn’t waver.”
He lists them off, his tone steady.
“Wolf Fang Ayame. Anton Savor. Mighty Mighty. Lutherian Locke.”
He removes one round from the cylinder and sets it on the table
“You might think the hunter has become the hunted.”
Another.
“Or that I’m in for a taste of my own medicine.”
Another.
“Maybe you’re just here for the fun.”
Another.
“Or perhaps you think faith is all you need to prosper against me.”
Another.
“Have I lived by the gun too long and this one is for me?”
He examines the round still chambered.
“As for the final player, the shadow pulling the strings in this whole charade…”
With a flick of his wrist, he rotates the cylinder and locks it back into place. He cocks the hammer, holding it to his temple, never breaking eye contact with the camera.
He pulls the trigger.
CLICK.
“It seems this one’s got your name on it.”