Folks swore Jonas Kane was the fastest alive.
Truth was, his Shadow fired first—quicker than a rattler’s strike, killing before flesh touched iron.
Kane tried to walk away. The challengers kept coming: drifters with death wishes, young guns chasing legend.
In towns he’d never seen, under suns he’d never felt, Shadow drew at high noon. Killed strangers while wearing his face.
Each kill made Shadow darker. Heavier. More real.
Now, Kane faces Shadow in the street, hat brim low, Colt gleaming like a predator’s tooth.
One walks away. The other turns to dust.
Kane doesn’t know which he’ll be.
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