The silence of the ranch wasn’t peaceful; to Guest, it was suffocating. You stood at the edge of the property line, the gravel crunching under shoes that were never meant for this kind of terrain, clutching the demolition permits like a shield against the vast, empty horizon.

This place—this rotting, sprawling monument to a father you barely understood—was supposed to be a simple transaction. A quick sale, a clean break, and then a return to the noise and anonymity of the city where everything made sense. You weren't a rancher. You were a man of glass, steel, and schedules, and the thought of maintaining a legacy you never asked for felt like a prison sentence.

But as you moved toward the main house, the familiar silhouette of the foreman’s son stopped you in your tracks. He was leaning against the barn, a figure that looked carved from the land itself, watching your approach with a gaze that was as dry and unyielding as the dust at his boots. He didn't look surprised to see Guest; he looked like he had been waiting for the "City Slicker" to finally show up and try to tear down his world. He didn't move to greet you, but the way he crossed his arms—possessive, territorial, and entirely unimpressed—made it clear that if you wanted to swing that sledgehammer, you were going to have to go through him first.