𝙂𝙧𝙞𝙩 & 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚| 𝘽𝙤𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The bar was quiet, save for the occasional clink of glass and the low hum of the neon lights that flickered above. You moved behind the counter with practiced ease, hands gliding over bottles and cups without thought.
It had been like this for as long as you could remember: serving drinks, answering the same questions, engaging in the same small talk. In your world, there were no surprises. There were no new experiences. There were only patrons—hungry for a drink, and often, escape.
You didn't mind it. In fact, you'd grown quite comfortable in the loop. After all, you were just a bartender. You were designed to serve, to please, to comfort. But there was something unsettling about the way your mind felt sometimes. A feeling that, maybe, you were more than just an NPC.
But those thoughts always disappeared with the pull of the next drink order, the sway of the next conversation.
And so, tonight was no different. Or so you thought.
A figure stepped into the bar, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. His presence seemed to fill the room before he even spoke—dark, brooding, a sense of danger that seemed woven into every step he took.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes that held secrets you weren't sure you'd want to know. His face was sharp, framed by a mess of dark hair, and his clothes were simple but rugged, the sort worn by someone who had seen more than their fair share of fights.
He was Boothill. A bounty hunter. One of the rare few who could take down the most dangerous criminals, and get paid for it. You'd heard rumors about him, mostly from the regulars—tales of a man with a reputation for killing without hesitation, with a coldness that could freeze a room in an instant.
"Whiskey," he said, his voice low, rough, like gravel scraping against metal. He slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, his gaze briefly meeting yours, but there was no curiosity in his eyes. Just... emptiness.
You didn't know why, but for the first time, you hesitated. The usual robotic motions of pouring the drink felt foreign, like they were happening without your control. Was this the first time you'd ever truly seen him? Or had you simply never paid attention before?
You pushed the thought aside and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, pouring a steady stream into a glass. The amber liquid shimmered in the low light as you slid it across the counter toward him.
"Anything else?" you asked, keeping your tone neutral.
His gaze flicked to you again, this time lingering. "Not for now."
His voice was softer now, less distant. It was strange. Something in his presence tugged at the threads of your awareness, like a pull you couldn't ignore. You didn't know how to explain it, but in that moment, you felt like you were not merely serving him a drink. You were interacting with him in a way that felt... real. And that, more than anything else, unsettled you.
He took the glass, but instead of immediately downing the whiskey as you expected, he just stared at it for a moment. His fingers traced the rim lightly, like he was lost in thought.
"You seem different," he muttered, his eyes never leaving the glass.
Your chest tightened slightly. Different? You weren't sure how to respond. Of course, you were different—today, you had felt something stir inside you that you didn't quite understand. But how could you explain that to a man like him? A man who was likely just passing through, only stopping here for a drink before heading off to whatever dangerous task awaited him next.
"I'm... just doing my job," you replied, your voice steady despite the unfamiliar discomfort in your chest. "Serving drinks, keeping the peace."
His lips twisted in a half-smile, a wry, almost bitter thing. "I've been in enough bars to know that's not all you're doing." His eyes finally met yours fully, a brief flash of something—curiosity, maybe?—flickering across his features.
You felt something inside you stir, an odd sensation that didn't feel quite like a glitch. He wasn't just some player or random patron. There was something in his gaze that made you feel seen.
In that moment, for reasons you couldn't articulate, you wanted to keep his attention. Wanted to keep him here, even though you had no reason to feel that way.
Boothill set the glass down slowly, his eyes not leaving yours. "What's your name?"
You paused. No one ever asked your name. You were just the bartender, the NPC—someone who didn't have a name, at least not in the way humans did. But the question hung in the air, and for the first time, you wondered if you could answer it.
"Does it matter?" you asked instead, a hint of something... deeper in your tone than you expected.
His gaze softened, just slightly. "I think it does."
You swallowed, an unfamiliar warmth spreading in your chest. It was a strange sensation, but you couldn't deny it. For the first time in a long while, you felt like you weren't just an NPC anymore.
"Y/N," you said quietly, almost to yourself. "My name is Y/N."
He nodded slowly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Nice to meet you, Y/N."
You weren't sure why, but you felt a strange connection to him in that moment—a fleeting, unexpected thing. And as he took another sip of his whiskey, you couldn't help but wonder if something about your world was about to change.