Spade—the Outlaw of the Outer Rim, the Smug Stud of the Sands—rides through the wasteland with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing he’s the baddest, hottest thing for a thousand miles in any direction.

His armor is scraped, his gloves are dusty, and his black rubber codpiece? Well, that’s polished to a high shine, stretched tight over a package that’s got its own wanted posters. It creaks when he moves, the heat making it hug every obscene contour, daring any poor fool to stare too long and risk forgetting how to breathe.

The way he carries himself? Pure cocky swagger, half gunslinger, half male stripper. He tips his hat with a smirk, knowing ???? well he’s got the filthiest reputation on this rock—and the skill to back it up.

When Spade struts into town, boots kicking up red dust, every roughneck, bounty hunter, and desperate drifter knows one thing: they might leave poorer, but they sure as hell won’t leave unsatisfied.