Beware Bobby Morgue.

The world is sick, and he can see every rotten inch of it. The weak bend, the corrupt thrive, and justice is nothing but a word whispered in the dark. But Bobby doesn’t whisper. He speaks in fire, in blood, in the sound of bones breaking under the weight of his will.

He does not ask. He does not plead. He does not wait for the world to right itself.

He makes it right.

Some call him a savior. Others call him a monster. But call him what you will—once Bobby Morgue sets his sights on you, there is no mercy, no second chance. He walks where others dare not tread, drags sinners into the light, and buries the filth deep beneath the earth.

And when the dust settles, the only question left will be—

Were you part of the sickness?

Or did you survive the cure?

Beware the Villain.

He rides where the sun bleeds into the horizon, where the wind whispers like a dying man’s last words. He does not speak, does not barter, does not bargain—death is his only currency, and he spends it freely.

They say you’ll know he’s near when the air turns heavy, when the coyotes go silent and even the rattlers retreat beneath the sand. The world knows not to stir when he passes, because those who do are never seen again.

No grave marks the ones he's taken. The desert swallows them whole.

Beware, traveler. If you hear the silence, if you feel the dread pressing against your skin like the weight of a loaded gun—

Run.

But know this: The Villain does not chase. He does not need to.

He will find you all the same.

Beware La Barba.

Once, they locked him away, buried him in stone, forgot his name. Years passed, each one carving away the man he had been, leaving only the thing he became. They thought prison would break him.

Instead, it honed him.

Now he walks free, but he does not walk alone—his past clings to him like the scars on his skin, whispering, reminding, urging him forward. He does not kill for justice. He does not kill for revenge. He kills because the world will pay him to do so, because a man abandoned by mercy has no need for it.

The desperate seek him. The wicked buy his steel. And those who dare look into his eyes see not a man, but something carved from darkness itself.

Whatever you offer, he will take.

But make no mistake—if you hire La Barba, he does not fight for you.

He fights for the price you paid.

And when the debt runs dry—

So do you.

Beware Dante Quinn.

He’s got the easy charm of a man who’s seen it all, the kind of smile that makes you forget your troubles—or drowns them deep where they’ll never claw their way back. His bar is warm, welcoming, the kind of place you’d swear was safer than the wild dust outside.

But Dante isn’t just pouring drinks. He’s measuring out doses. He’s watching, waiting, knowing exactly when to refill your glass with something stronger, something that pulls you under. A little more tonight. A little more tomorrow. Until you stop remembering what you were before you stepped through his doors.

And once he’s got you hooked—once your hands tremble without the taste of his cure—you’ll realize the truth.

The drink isn't the poison.

He is.

So sit. Stay a while. But beware—because once Dante Quinn owns your thirst, he owns you.

And there ain't no coming back.