The Gunslinger sits at a table, his revolver dismantled before him, a practiced ritual. He inspects a part closely, searching for any hint of carbon, his eyes hard and unyielding. Satisfied, he sets it back down with a measured grace.
“People get blinded by shine, you know? Take my gun for example. They see the pretty etchings, the polished wood, and think that’s the whole damn story. But the real magic ain’t in the flash—it’s in the guts. A true gunslinger knows every notch and groove, every way it can break down when the heat’s on. That’s how you master your weapon, how you keep it alive.”
He methodically wipes down another component, his movements precise.
“Here’s the kicker: the flashier the gun, the more likely it’s a toy. Spend all your time fussing over looks, and you’ll forget the heart of it. Neglect those details, and even the finest piece becomes nothing more than scrap metal—useless when it counts.”
With practiced ease, he begins to reassemble his revolver, the pieces clicking together like an ominous promise.
“Now take Moriarty Junior. You’re the poster boy for style over substance. Strutting around Arcadia in your fancy suits, playing the role of a high-class criminal. You’re so desperate to show everyone that you’re someone that matters, someone with power, someone important. You think you’re pulling the strings, but really? You’re just a shadow trying to convince folks you’re a ghost. You’ve fooled a lot of ’em, but not me.”
His voice drops to a low growl, each word dripping with disdain.
“I ain’t here to indulge your illusions. I won’t take part in this fantasy of yours. Me? I’m here to show you the truth. And the truth, my friend, is that all of those fears and insecurities you’re trying to mask? Each and every one of them? They’re true. Let’s face it, Moriarty. Beneath all that shine and gloss, you’re just a collection of flaws and broken parts, neglected and rusting. When we face off, that facade’s gonna crack wide open, the veneer will tarnish, and everyone will see you for what you truly are—pathetic, all show and no substance. Just flash without fire.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in, his gaze unflinching.
“You can run from that void, that fear of being nothing. But…”
With a final click, he locks the last piece into place, aiming the revolver directly at the camera, the barrel dark and hungry.
“You can’t outrun a bullet.”