The sun was a burning inferno above Neo Austin’s barren outskirts, casting long, jagged shadows over the cracked earth and rusted remnants of a civilization long past. Freiheit stood at the edge of the Desert District, his hands hovering over his revolvers. The weight of the weapons felt heavier now, their presence a constant reminder of what had been taken from him—and what he had yet to take in return.

Ahead lay Jean Mean’s hideout, a dilapidated shack surrounded by heaps of scrap metal and half-buried vehicles. The wind howled, kicking up dust that clung to Freiheit’s sweat-drenched skin. He adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, which contained a first-aid kit and a few supplies Nate had insisted he bring.

“Jean Mean, huh,” he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “What kind of name is that?”

The truth was, Freiheit didn’t care who Jean Mean was. He was just another obstacle, another name on a list he hadn’t written but felt compelled to cross out.

Taking a deep breath, Freiheit stepped forward, his boots crunching against the dry ground. The shack grew closer, its windows dark and uninviting. He could hear faint music playing inside—some kind of distorted, chaotic tune that matched the aura of the place.

Freiheit didn’t bother with subtlety. He kicked the door open, revolvers drawn, and shouted, “Jean Mean! Get your ass out here!”

The music cut off abruptly, and for a moment, there was silence. Then came a laugh—high-pitched and manic, echoing through the room like the rattle of a snake.

“You’ve got balls, kid!” a voice called out from somewhere in the shadows. “But balls don’t mean a damn thing if you’re dead!”

Before Freiheit could respond, the air erupted with the deafening roar of machine guns. Bullets tore through the wooden walls, splinters flying in every direction. Freiheit dove behind an overturned table, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Shit,” he hissed, gripping his revolvers tightly.

“Didn’t think it’d be that easy, did ya?” Jean Mean shouted, his voice laced with unhinged glee.

Freiheit peeked out from behind the table and spotted Jean Mean—a wiry man with wild eyes and a grin that stretched too wide. He was perched on a stack of crates, a machine gun in each hand, firing wildly in every direction.

Freiheit aimed one of his revolvers and fired, but the bullet missed, embedding itself in the wall behind Jean Mean.

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“Ha! You’re gonna have to do better than that!” Jean Mean cackled, unleashing another barrage of bullets.

Freiheit ducked back behind the table, cursing under his breath. His shoulder burned where a bullet had grazed him, and his breathing was ragged. He was outmatched—Jean Mean’s firepower was overwhelming, and the guy was clearly insane enough to keep firing until the entire shack was reduced to rubble.

As he pressed his back against the table, trying to think of a plan, a memory surfaced—a fragment of a lesson from his father, years ago.

“Listen, kid,” his dad had said, his voice firm but not unkind. “A gunfight isn’t about who shoots first. It’s about who shoots smart. You let the other guy waste his ammo, and when he’s reloading, that’s when you strike.”

“But what if they’re faster than me?” Freiheit had asked, his young voice trembling with doubt.

His dad had smiled, ruffling his hair. “Doesn’t matter how fast they are. Everyone’s vulnerable when they’re reloading. You just have to be patient—and stay alive long enough to take your shot.”

The memory gave Freiheit clarity. He glanced at the revolvers in his hands, their sleek barrels gleaming faintly in the dim light.

“Alright, Jean,” he muttered. “Let’s see how long you can keep that up.”

He waited, his body tense as Jean Mean continued to spray bullets across the room. The walls were riddled with holes, the furniture reduced to splinters. But eventually, the barrage began to slow.

“Aw, damn it!” Jean Mean growled, his guns clicking as they ran dry.

Now.

Freiheit sprang from behind the table, firing both revolvers simultaneously. The world seemed to freeze, the air thick and still as the bullets left his barrels. Time paused, and Freiheit moved through the frozen moment, weaving through the suspended chaos until he had a clear shot.

When time resumed, Jean Mean let out a choked gasp as one of Freiheit’s bullets tore through his shoulder, sending him tumbling off the stack of crates.

“You little bastard!” Jean Mean snarled, clutching his shoulder as he scrambled for another gun.

Freiheit dove behind another piece of cover, his breathing ragged. He only had a few bullets left, and he couldn’t afford to waste them.

Jean Mean, now armed with a pistol, began firing again, his shots wild and erratic.

“You think you’re tough?” Jean Mean shouted. “You think you can take me down? I’ve killed guys twice your size, you punk!”

Freiheit didn’t respond. He was focused, his father’s words replaying in his mind. He waited, counting the shots as Jean Mean’s pistol clicked closer to empty.

Four. Five. Six.

The clicking of an empty chamber was Freiheit’s cue. He stepped out from behind cover, both revolvers raised.

“Guess you’re out of luck,” he said coldly, his voice steady despite the pain coursing through his body.

Jean Mean’s eyes widened as Freiheit fired. The bullets struck true, and Jean Mean collapsed, his body slumping against the crates.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the desert wind outside. Freiheit stood there, his revolvers still smoking, his chest heaving.

But the adrenaline that had kept him upright was fading fast. His vision blurred, and he stumbled, dropping to one knee. Blood seeped from the wound in his shoulder, staining his shirt and pooling on the ground.

“Damn it,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

He tried to stand, but his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor. As darkness closed in around him, his last thought was of his father’s voice, steady and reassuring.

“Stay alive, kid,” the voice echoed in his mind. “Stay alive.”

To be continued.