At the sight of Violet, Jake lunged toward Bart. He wasn’t holding anything. He just ran at him. The space was tight, and it only took him a few steps. Bart laughed, holding Violet. Just before reaching them, Jake tripped and fell. As he lay on the ground, he turned and saw Wade’s leg, which he’d stumbled over. Bart laughed, followed by Wade. Wade quickly hid his smile, stood up from the chair, bent down, and almost single-handedly lifted Jake off the ground. Jake steadied himself and stood. Wade swung his rifle and knocked him down a second time.


    "I knew you were no good, sheriff," Wade said, kicking him again. "But you did your job. Now I could kill you if I wanted to. But I won’t. I want you to see what we’re going to do to your precious Violet first."


    Jake lay on the ground. He couldn’t get up a second time. He was clearly in pain—as much pain as a robot could feel. He dragged himself across the floor, one eye shut, a trickle of blood running down the side of his face.


    Bart pushed Violet forward roughly, and she walked slowly. He held her by the shoulder with one hand while pressing a pistol to her head with the other. She didn’t resist. He sat her on the chair in front of Daniel and Jasper, and Wade stood behind her. He leaned forward slightly from behind, ran a finger across her face, and brushed away the wet strands of hair falling over it. He smiled. But Violet didn’t look scared. Daniel might even say she seemed pleased. He saw a spark of joy in her eyes. She was looking at him. And smiling.


    "What do you think of this beauty?" Wade bent down and buried his nose in her hair. "She doesn’t smell as nice as she used to, but I’m sure she wants me."


    Violet tried to pull away, which clearly caused her pain. The wound on her face hadn’t healed yet and was swollen. Daniel had been involved in everything at the park over the past month, but some things still surprised him. He looked at Violet’s wound not as something Wade and Bart had done to her, but as a marvel of Hugo’s design. He was impressed.


    But they had to keep playing this so-called story. Clearly, old Hugo was still enjoying their free performance from somewhere. And the whole theater was set up just for them.


    Whether it was a gift or some kind of punishment, Daniel couldn’t decide. And in front of him, the movie went on.


    "Bart, I see you’re the boss here," Jasper said, looking at Bart. "What do you want from us?"


    "Those little games won’t work, fatso," Bart replied, his fingers digging into Violet’s shoulder. "There’s no boss between me and Wade. The only boss is Reed. And when he gets back, he’ll tell you himself."


    "If he gets back."


    "Oh, he’ll be back. And until then, you’re staying here."


    "Why not just give us a gun and face us in a fair duel? Or are you scared?"


    Both of them laughed almost in unison.


    "Your tricks won’t work, and you’d better stop trying. We’ve got one more guest who can’t wait to see you. Especially to meet Violet."


    Violet looked up at them. Pain was evident in her eyes.


    "Wade, pick up that bastard and tie him next to his sweetheart," Bart said, pointing at Jake.


    Wade bent down, pressed his rifle to Jake’s head, and helped him stand. He grabbed his hands, tied them behind his back, and shoved him to sit on the ground near the bar. Bart waited for Jake to be secured and smirked at him. Then he whistled.


    Soft footsteps sounded on the wooden floor upstairs. Gradually, the steps grew closer to the stairs, and soon a pair of legs appeared. Red shoes and a woman’s legs in black stockings. Behind them came another pair of legs. Smaller, almost childlike.


    "Introducing the new leading lady of the bar—Beatrice," Bart announced.


    They knew Beatrice. She was one of the most secretive girls at Violet’s bar and one of the prettier ones. With long, curly red hair, a pale face, and green eyes. Just like before, she wore a red buttoned vest that strained over her ample chest beneath a white shirt. Below, she had a dark red skirt. Daniel saw uncertainty in her eyes, and definitely a hint of fear. But she wasn’t injured like Violet—her face was clean. She wasn’t the interesting one, though. The boy behind her was. No more than twelve years old. And in his hands, he held a rifle. A rifle pointed at Beatrice. It looked unnatural in his hands, too big for him. But the boy was smiling. He had dark hair, wore a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and kept the rifle aimed at Beatrice’s head or back, chuckling softly. Wade and Bart seemed pleased too.


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    "Meet my son, Troy," Bart said, presenting him as if he weren’t a child with a weapon but a circus performer. "Troy’s a great shot. He definitely wouldn’t miss from that distance."


    "Beatrice?" Violet said her name with great effort, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear.


    "Yes, Beatrice. You know her, Violet," Bart turned to her. "One of your trusted girls."


    "Why Beatrice?"


    "I’ll answer that."


    Bart stepped in front of Violet, blocking Beatrice from her view. He crouched down. His back was to Jasper and Daniel. One sharp tug of their hands could free them from the ropes and take Bart down. But Wade was still behind them. And now there was a third person to worry about, even if he was a kid. Bart continued:


    "With that wound, you can’t be the face of the bar anymore, darling," Bart said, touching Violet’s wound again. She flinched. "You’re only good for a cheap whore now. The kind your whores service—the most desperate men."


    Violet tried to kick Bart but failed. He grabbed her thighs and grinned, sliding his hands along them.


    "Want one last fuck, sweetheart?" he said. "I heard you used to charge a lot for yourself. Can you pay with your life now? Trade a fuck for your life?" He laughed.


    She tried to kick him again, and this time she succeeded, though it was too weak. Bart pulled out his pistol and pressed the barrel into her wound. Violet was in pain, and blood ran down her face. Bart savored it.


    "Leave her alone, you bastard!" Daniel shouted, feeling like he was in one of those movies where that line was a cliché. But it worked.


    Bart pulled away from her. But now he was looking at him.


    "Want the same wound, you bastard?" Bart said, striking him with the pistol—but lightly. Either he lacked strength, or their safety measures were loosened but not entirely gone.


    "Troy!" Bart called to the kid, who was still grinning while holding Beatrice at gunpoint. "Bring that beauty over here."


    Beatrice started walking on her own, and Troy followed, careful not to let her out of his sight.


    "Redheaded love," Bart said, grabbing a handful of her locks and inhaling them. It seemed to be a habit of his. "Ready to take this hag’s place?" He pointed at Violet.


    Beatrice didn’t answer. Her eyes filled with tears. Bart slapped her.


    "I asked you something."


    "Y-yes."


    "Good girl. Troy!" He turned to the kid again. "Lower that gun off the lady. Can’t you see she’s nervous, you little bastard?"


    Troy lowered the rifle, though with slight reluctance, and leaned on it like a cane. The rifle was half his size. He looked just as smug as his father, Bart.


    Bart grabbed Beatrice by the neck and gently led her in front of Violet.


    "Want to avoid ending up like her?"


    Beatrice was crying.


    "Beatrice, darling," Bart kept talking to her. "I asked you something."


    "N-no."


    "Good. Then you only have to do one thing." Bart took one of his revolvers and placed it in her hands. "To take someone’s throne, you have to kill them. That’s how it’s always been." He leaned close to her face and kissed her softly.


    Beatrice’s hands trembled. Daniel was sure she’d drop the revolver any second. Tears streamed down her face. Violet looked at her calmly. She saw something in her eyes that the others didn’t. And she gave her a slight nod. She was ready to die. Daniel glanced at Jasper. Jasper was looking at him too. He could tell from his expression that they didn’t need to intervene. The story was written for them, and they had to watch it play out.


    "So, Beatrice? Want the spot?" Bart said. "Because if you don’t, I don’t need you. What about you, Wade?" He turned to his friend.


    "I see Beatrice as a good mother to the rest of the whores," Wade replied.


    "And if she doesn’t want it?"


    "If she doesn’t, she’s got nothing else to live for," Wade said, twirling his revolver on his finger while leaning against the bar.


    Little Troy picked up his rifle again.


    Beatrice raised the revolver to Violet’s face. She was unsteady—the gun shook, as did half her body. She was too close to miss, though even that seemed possible. She looked like she’d never held a gun before. And she’d certainly never killed.


    "Come on, Beatrice," Violet said, unafraid, looking her in the eyes. "If there’s one thing these bastards are right about, it’s that with this scar, I can’t work the bar anymore. Just take care of this place. Change the name if you want. Change the prices, change the staff. But look after the girls. They deserve someone to protect them."


    Beatrice didn’t move. She held the gun and cried.


    But then a gun barrel appeared at her forehead too. And Bart whispered something to her that no one else heard.


    Beatrice pulled the trigger, and the revolver’s song echoed through the bar.