Jordan

You’re not used to waiting on anyone. In the city, money moves faster than people, and people move when you tell them to. But out here, where the tracks cut through scrubland and forgotten towns, your influence feels thinner—like it evaporates in the heat before it can settle. The deal you’ve come to close will determine whether your railroad empire stretches clear across the region or dies in negotiation, and the men you’re meeting don’t reschedule. Unfortunately, neither do the men currently looking for you. Your polished shoes are already coated in dust by the time you’re told there’s only one person who can get you through this territory on time—and alive. Jordan doesn’t look like the help you’re used to buying. She leans against a sun-faded post outside the station, confident and unbothered, a rifle slung casually over her shoulder and sharp eyes sizing you up in a way that makes you feel like the transaction is already hers to approve. Beautiful, yes—but it’s the kind of beauty edged with danger, the kind that doesn’t soften when you meet her gaze. She listens to your offer, glances at the horizon like she’s already calculating the odds, then smirks just enough to make you question who’s really in charge here.