The train whistled as it wound through the mountains, the steel wheels clanking against the tracks in a steady rhythm. The cold air seeped through the cracks of the passenger car, but Cassidy barely noticed. His focus was elsewhere—somewhere far beyond the physical world. Somewhere he couldn't see, but he could feel.
Cassidy sat near the window, the brim of his hat pulled low, his face half-hidden in shadow. His fingers traced the smooth wood of the lever-action rifle resting across his lap, the weapon worn and scarred from years of use. It had belonged to his father, a man Cassidy barely remembered, but the rifle remained as his legacy—his only tie to the past.
The badge pinned to his chest gleamed in the dim light. It bore a single word: **Zodiac**. In the ranks of the FBE—the Federal Bureau of Enforcement—there were only ten agents of his caliber, and Cassidy was the youngest to ever hold the title. His peers called him a prodigy, a man who could shoot the wings off a fly at a hundred yards. But Cassidy never let the praise get to him. He knew the truth.
He wasn't a sharpshooter. He was lucky.
The FBE had trained him rigorously, and he knew the mechanics of shooting by heart—position, wind, breath control. But none of it mattered when it came to pulling the trigger. Cassidy relied on something else, something that felt like fate's invisible hand guiding each bullet to its mark. He never missed, but not because of skill. It was pure luck.
Luck had kept him alive this long. But he knew it wouldn't last forever.
"Agent Zodiac," a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Cassidy didn't turn toward the sound. His hearing, honed from years of blindness, was sharp enough to recognize the voice and the person it belonged to without seeing them.
"Commander," Cassidy replied.
Commander Harris, a middle-aged man with the stern, no-nonsense attitude common to FBE leaders, sat down across from Cassidy. His boots thudded against the floor as he adjusted his belt, the holster of his sidearm glinting in the low light.
"We're about two hours from Black Hollow," Harris said. "You've read the reports?"
Cassidy nodded, though the reports meant little to him. He could recall every word, but his real advantage came from listening to the world around him, letting it fill in the blanks that his eyes never could.
"They say the McMiller Gang's in town," Harris continued. "And Charlie St. Peter's with them."
Cassidy's grip tightened on the rifle. The name was familiar—Charlie St. Peter, the infamous outlaw with two first names. He'd heard of the McMiller Gang, of course. Everyone had. But Charlie was different. There was a buzz around him, rumors of magic, of unnatural instincts, of someone who could bend the future to his will.
The idea intrigued Cassidy. He understood what it was like to feel something bigger at play, to rely on forces beyond one's control. He wondered what Charlie's story really was.
"I don't suppose you'll need much backup," Harris said with a smirk. "Not for someone like you."
Cassidy shook his head. "I work alone."
He could hear Harris fidgeting, the man shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The FBE wasn't fond of loners, but they made exceptions for agents like Zodiac. After all, results spoke louder than preferences.
"You've got a clean record," Harris said. "But this one's different. The Bureau wants Charlie St. Peter alive. They think he knows something... something dangerous. He's not just another outlaw."
Cassidy let the words hang in the air. Harris was right. The McMiller Gang was up to more than just robbing trains or holding up banks. The FBE had been tracking their movements for months, and they were always one step ahead. That sort of luck didn't just happen—it was orchestrated. Cassidy had a feeling that whatever pulled his hand toward luck was guiding Charlie too, but in a far more deliberate way.
"I'll bring him in," Cassidy said simply.
Harris stood up, the wooden seat creaking beneath him. "Good. We'll be watching."
Cassidy tipped his hat, listening as the commander's footsteps receded. He was alone again, the sound of the train echoing in his ears. He could hear everything: the creak of the metal joints, the shuffle of passengers, even the faint rustling of trees outside the window. To him, it was all a part of a bigger pattern. If he listened long enough, he'd find the thread he needed to pull.
---
The town of Black Hollow was quiet when Cassidy arrived, his footsteps soft on the wooden planks of the station platform. The air was cold, thick with dust and the scent of coming rain. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of the weapon, then tilted his head, listening.
The town was alive, but barely. Soft murmurs from the saloon down the street. The creak of signs swinging in the breeze. Horses whinnying in the stables. He took it all in, not through sight, but through sound and feel.
His luck hadn't kicked in yet, but it would. It always did.
Cassidy made his way to the saloon. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension, though few would've noticed. Men sat around card tables, laughing too loudly, or drinking too deeply. They were afraid. They knew something was coming. Cassidy felt it too, the sense that everything was teetering on the edge of disaster.
He stepped inside, boots tapping softly on the wooden floor. He could feel the eyes on him, some wary, some curious. Cassidy didn't look like much—a lean young man with a dusty hat and a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. But the badge on his chest spoke volumes.
As he made his way to the bar, the noise in the saloon dipped, and a few men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Cassidy could feel the tension winding through the room like a taut wire.
"What'll it be?" asked the bartender, his mechanical arm whirring as he poured a drink for another customer.
"Information," Cassidy replied.
The bartender glanced at him, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the badge. "We don't want any trouble, agent."
"I'm not here for trouble," Cassidy said, his voice calm but firm. "I'm here for Charlie St. Peter."
The saloon fell into a heavy silence. Even the piano music seemed to falter. Cassidy could feel the weight of the name hanging in the air. Everyone knew who Charlie was. They just didn't know where he was. But Cassidy didn't need to ask. His luck was already at work.
Without a word, Cassidy turned his head slightly to the corner of the saloon, where a cloaked figure sat in the shadows, just out of sight. The man had barely moved, but Cassidy knew he was watching him.
"I think I found him," Cassidy said softly to himself, his hand moving to the rifle on his back. Luck had done its job. Now, it was time for him to do his.
