Alexander William was born in 1870, in a world that offered little mercy to those without power.
By 1883, that mercy had vanished entirely.
His father—a town doctor known more for treating outlaws than judging them—was killed in a shootout with lawmen. No trial. No explanation. Just gunfire echoing through a street and a body left behind as a warning. Alexander was thirteen when he learned that justice often depended on who held the gun.
For the next seven years, Alexander drifted. Town to town. Job to job. Always running from hunger, from memories, and from the growing weight of debt that clung to him like a shadow—five thousand dollars, owed to men who did not forgive and never forgot.
1890 – The Forest Road to Rosewood
Midnight wrapped the forest in silence as Alexander rode toward Rosewood, his horse's hooves crunching softly against the dirt path. The moon was thin, barely enough to guide him through the trees.
Then he saw it.
A roadblock—logs dragged across the path, torches flickering on either side.
Alexander slowed his horse, narrowing his eyes.
"Road's blocked," he called out cautiously. "Mind telling me why?"
Seven figures stepped into the torchlight.
Their clothes were rough. Their smiles sharper.
One of them chuckled. "That's real polite of you to ask."
Another raised a rifle. "Get off the horse. Slow."
Alexander's grip tightened on the reins.
Robbers.
His heart pounded—but his instincts screamed louder.
He kicked the horse forward.
The animal surged ahead, crashing straight into one of the men. The robber screamed as he hit the ground, bones snapping under the weight.
"Son of a—!" someone shouted.
Gunfire erupted.
Alexander leaned low, bullets tearing past him as the robbers mounted their own horses and gave chase.
"Don't let him escape!"
The forest blurred as branches whipped past his face. He had no time to think—only to ride.
Too fast.
Too far.
Suddenly, the trees vanished.
The path ended at a cliff.
Alexander pulled hard on the reins. The horse skidded to a halt just inches from the edge, rocks crumbling into the darkness below.
He turned.
The robbers surrounded him, guns raised, breath heavy, eyes burning with victory.
"Well," one of them said, smiling. "Nowhere left to run."
Alexander swallowed, slowly lifting his hands.
Then—
"Hey! You unwanted boys of your father!"
The robbers turned.
A single gunshot cracked the air.
Then another.
And another.
In seconds, bodies dropped into the dirt, lifeless before they even understood what had happened.
A man stepped forward from the shadows, revolver still smoking.
Tall. Calm. Deadly.
Alexander stared. "You… you saved my life."
The stranger glanced at him briefly—eyes cold, unreadable.
Then he turned away.
"Wait!" Alexander called out. "At least tell me your name."
The man paused for half a second.
Then walked into the forest without a word.
Logan Morgan
Logan Morgan was born in 1875.
By 1890, he had learned how quickly the world could collapse.
That night, he and his parents stood between a helpless woman and seven armed goons on a dirt road outside town.
"Please," the woman cried, clutching Logan's mother's arm. "I didn't do anything."
One of the men laughed and stepped forward, revolver in hand.
"Six bullets," he said casually, spinning the chamber. "That's more than enough."
Logan's father stepped in front of him. "You'll have to go through us."
The first shot missed.
The second hit dirt.
The third struck Logan's mother.
The fourth took his father.
The fifth silenced the woman's scream.
Logan didn't remember screaming. He only remembered running.
He banged on doors. Yelled for help. Cried until his throat burned.
No one answered.
At last, exhausted and shaking, he stumbled into a clearing where a cart stood parked, quiet beneath the stars.
Inside it, a man slept.
Logan climbed in, trembling, and hid himself inside a wooden barrel, pulling the lid shut as footsteps echoed in the distance.
He pressed his hand over his mouth.
And waited for the world to decide whether he would live.