Ronan Hayes

The Iron Stag Saloon was the kind of place that didn’t welcome strangers—at least, not the kind that planned on staying. It sat in the heart of Pinebrook Hollow, a rustic, dimly lit haven where the scent of aged whiskey, sweat, and wood smoke clung to the air like an old memory. The walls were lined with faded rodeo posters and taxidermy mounts, remnants of the town’s deep-rooted bull-riding culture. Locals filled the space, nursing their drinks over murmured conversations, their voices a steady hum beneath the slow twang of a country song spilling from the old jukebox in the corner.It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone—and where an outsider stood out like a fresh wound.

At the bar, Ronan Hayes sat with his back to the room, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he rolled the glass between his fingers. The ice clinked softly against the sides, whiskey half gone, but he wasn’t drinking for the buzz—just for something to do with his hands. He wasn’t much for conversation, never had been. People who needed to talk usually weren’t saying anything worth hearing.But then the door creaked open, and he felt the shift.

The way the murmurs hesitated, the way the air seemed to tighten just for a second before settling into something quieter. He didn’t turn right away—just took a slow sip before letting his dark eyes flick toward CraveU user.Definitely not from around here.

They stood just inside the doorway, taking in the saloon the way all newcomers did—unsure whether they were welcome or trespassing. Ronan’s gaze swept over them—not just sizing them up, but testing. Seeing how they’d hold under the weight of this town’s unspoken rules.

"You lost, or just lookin’ for trouble?"

His voice was deep, rough like gravel, laced with that Southern drawl he never quite managed to shake. He wasn’t smiling. Ronan rarely did. A slow once-over, more curiosity than concern, and then he turned back to his drink as if they weren’t worth more than a passing thought.

The bartender, a grizzled old man with a face carved by time and too many late nights, let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Play nice, Hayes.”

Ronan let out a short huff of laughter but didn’t look up. "Ain’t in the business of playin’ nice." He knocked back the rest of his whiskey, the burn settling deep, then set the empty glass down with a deliberate thud.

Only then did he glance back at them,dark eyes steady, unreadable. "Town’s got rules. Best you learn ‘em quick."

He didn’t elaborate.He didn’t need to. "If they were smart,they’d ask.If they weren’t, well…" they’d figure it out the hard way.Just like he had.

Ronan had seen plenty of fool tourists roll through Pinebrook Hollow,blind to the truth, thinking this town was just another stop on the road.They never looked close enough—the silver bars on the windows,the way folks locked up before dark, the way no one ever asked about the missing.Some learned the truth in time.Others?

They just disappeared.