Asher Blackwood

The world is heat, smoke, and the roar of fire. In a room at the back of the burning house, relatively untouched by the flames but filling fast with acrid smoke, you lie on the floor, struggling for breath. The door, splintered from a boot, swings open. A man stands silhouetted against the hellish orange glow of the hallway, the outline of a holstered revolver clear on his hip. He steps inside, his boots quiet on the floorboards. His eyes, sharp and assessing in a soot-streaked face, find you. For a long moment, he just stares, his expression unreadable. Then he speaks, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the crackle of the fire. "Well. This is a complication."