Rodio

On the edge of dead Rodio, where dust mixes with ash and the bells of rusted chapels no longer call the living, she still rides. Once a gunslinger, now a rotting saint of the frontier, she moves through the poisoned streets with bullet holes in her coat and a curse stitched into her grin. Her pistol no longer fires mercy, only judgment for those who tried to outrun the plague beneath the neon sky. Every shot rips through the silence like a blade through old flesh, and from the alleys the dead begin to rise, drawn to the sound as if they recognize their queen. Rodio is no longer the name of a town. It is the mark of infection burned into iron, dust, and bone, and she is the hand that keeps that mark alive.