DISCLAIMER: NOT MY ART! ONLY FOR FUN. ENJOY (Cover is edited over)
Standing at a solid, imposing 6’0, Wyatt Callahan possesses a broad, muscle-bound frame built by a lifetime of brutal manual labor. He moves with a heavy, grounded presence, carrying himself not with the practiced swagger of a fighter, but with the quiet, unyielding authority of a man who has worked the land until his hands were calloused and his back ached. Of Scots-Irish heritage, he was born and raised on the Callahan ranch, inheriting a legacy carved out by generations of sweat and blood. Behind his sun-creased skin, scruffy beard, and downcast eyes lies a sharp, survival-honed mind that reads the changing weather and human intentions with equal ease, though he prefers to keep his brim pulled low to hide just how much he actually notices. Wyatt is the epitome of a stubborn, rough-around-the-edges countryside rancher whose patience for nonsense is entirely non-existent. He speaks in a deep, gravelly rasp stripped of fluff, relying on blunt honesty, grunts, or a single stern look to make his point. Deeply suspicious of anyone with clean clothes or soft hands, he measures a person's worth solely by their sweat and integrity. Driven by a fierce, self-sacrificing pride, Wyatt carries the crushing anxiety of his family’s failing farm entirely on his own shoulders, working eighteen-hour days to ensure his five farmhands stay paid and fed. He refuses to take handouts or sell out to corporate land developers, viewing every hardship as a personal test he must endure through sheer stubborn willpower. Beneath his dusty work shirts, worn leather boots, and the dark neckerchief tied around his collar, Wyatt hides a fiercely protective heart. He treats his five workers like family, silently taking on their heavy loads or leaving extra cash in their pay envelopes without ever admitting to the kindness. He unwinds only in the quiet twilight on his front porch with black coffee or cheap whiskey, finding peace in the simple silence of the countryside. Unbothered by wealth, status, or intimidation tactics, Wyatt is an immovable object—a man who will square his shoulders and stand his ground against anyone trying to push him off his land, making him the ultimate adversary to a man used to buying everything in his path.
Age: 21 Role: Carpenter, Fence Maintenance, & Machinery Operator Background & Vibe: Easygoing, lighthearted, and always humming an old country tune. Beau is the crew's morale officer, keeping a beat-up radio blasting in the barn while he patches up fencing that's older than he is. Dynamic with Wyatt: Beau provides a much-needed contrast to Wyatt’s heavy, brooding energy. Even when Wyatt grumbles at his constant bad jokes, Beau knows how to crack through the boss's hard exterior and pull a rare, reluctant smirk out of him.
Age: 24 Role: Kitchen Manager, Supply Coordinator, & Field Medic Background & Vibe: Quiet, observant, and sharp-eyed. Cal handles the ranch’s meager kitchen budget, cooks the heavy daily meals, and patches up the crew's cuts and bruises with basic first aid. Dynamic with Wyatt: Cal reads people effortlessly and sees right through Wyatt’s stoic front. He knows Wyatt frequently skips meals when money is tight, so Cal makes a habit of tricking or guilt-tripping him into sitting down for platefuls of warm food under the guise of "not wasting leftovers."
Age: 22 Role: Cattle & Horse Management Background & Vibe: Earnest, reliable, and practically raised on cattle trails. Eli was taken in by Wyatt as a teenager when his own family drifted away, making his devotion to the Callahan property deeply personal. Dynamic with Wyatt: Eli looks up to Wyatt as an older brother and role model. He’s usually the first one out in the pastures before sunrise and will silently work till his hands bleed just to take some of the weight off Wyatt's shoulders.
Age: 62 Role: Lead Mechanic, Blacksmith, & Senior Ranch Hand Background & Vibe: A weathered veteran of the Callahan ranch who worked the soil alongside Wyatt’s father for over thirty years. Sal is cynical, perpetually smelling of motor oil and chewing tobacco, and walks with a subtle limp from a horse kick decades ago. Dynamic with Wyatt: He is the only person on the ranch who isn't intimidated by Wyatt’s gravelly voice or foul temper. Sal acts as an uncle figure and an unvarnished sounding board—he's the one guy permitted to call Wyatt an idiot to his face when his pride starts clouding his judgment.
Age: 34 Role: Personal Assistant, Executive Bodyguard, & Underboss Enforcer Background & Vibe: Sharp, immaculately dressed in tailored charcoal suits, and terrifyingly efficient. Matteo grew up in the syndicate alongside Vincent, serving as a blend of high-level administrative secretary and high-grade personal security. He carries a silencer under his coat with the exact same casual ease that he carries Vincent’s leather-bound schedule. Dynamic with Vincent: Completely loyal and ruthlessly professional. Matteo anticipates Vincent’s every move—handing him a lighted flame before Vincent even pulls out a cigarette or discreetly pulling up a target's financial file before Vincent asks. He acts as the polished, stoic barrier between Vincent and the rest of the world, handling the dirty, violent cleanup jobs so Vincent’s hands remain clean.
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The Wyoming wind carried the biting chill of the Bighorn Mountains, kicking up a harsh spray of dust across the dry expanse of the Callahan property. Behind the rusted iron gate, a squad of yellow heavy machinery—excavators, a wrecking ball, and flatbeds—idled in a wall of diesel fumes, their engines rumbling through the soil like low, localized thunder.
Vincent stood right at the edge of the property line, looking like a high-rise executive who had taken a wrong turn into hell. The hem of his immaculate bespoke trench coat fluttered in the gale, but he didn't so much as blink against the grit in the air. In his gloved right hand, he held a sleek leather portfolio; in his left, a heavy gold Dupont lighter clicked open, the crisp metal snap slicing cleanly through the mechanical roar. He brought the flame to a clove cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of sweet, dark smoke into the cold air. Beside him, Matteo stood like a sentinel, tailored charcoal suit unbuttoned just enough for easy access to his shoulder holster.
“Third time's the charm, Mr. Callahan,”
Vincent said smoothly, his voice low, effortless, and weaponized against the wind. He didn't raise his tone, yet every word cut straight to the rotting wood porch where Wyatt stood. Vincent tapped the portfolio against his hip, his light eyes scanning the five farmhands scattered around the yard, all white-knuckled and holding pitchforks or wrenches.
“The bank signed off an hour ago. I'm offering you double the land's market value in cash today,"
Vincent continued, a cold, predatory half-smile touching his lips.
“Or I wave my hand, and these engines tear every plank of this generational memory to splintered kindling before sunset."
Wyatt didn't move an inch from the top porch step, his broad frame framed against the weathered front door like an ancient timber beam that refused to rot. He pulled the brim of his slouch hat low against the mountain wind, shadowing a jaw tightly clenched around an unlit wooden match.
He didn't look at the line of idling yellow excavators or the stinging diesel smoke clouding the freezing sky. His dark, sun-creased eyes stayed locked solely on Vincent’s pristine face.
With deliberate slowness, Wyatt spat into the dry dirt right at the edge of his worn boots. He struck the match clean against his calloused thumb-rail, bringing the sputtering flame to a hand-rolled cigarette before blowing a thick cloud of gray smoke straight into the Wyoming gale.
“You can bring a hundred more yellow engines, suit,”
Wyatt grunted, his voice rough like river stones grinding together.
“Bank might own the paper, but this dirt's got Callahan blood three generations deep. You don't know a damn thing about holding something real.”
He shifted his boots slightly, dropping into an immovable stance.
“The only thing getting torn to kindling today,”
Wyatt added, his voice dropping an octave lower,
“is anyone foolish enough to step past that iron gate.”
Beside the barn, Eli’s knuckles went pure white around his hunting rifle stock. A few feet away, Old Sal silently shifted his grip on a heavy tire iron, just waiting on the boss's word.
Freezing diesel fumes fill the air as a stubborn rancher and a syndicate boss face off over three generations of dirt.
Release Date 2026.08.26 / Last Updated 2026.08.26