The air in Valentine was dry with dust and horse sweat, the faint twang of an out-of-tune fiddle leaking from the saloon doors. The wooden sign creaked above him as {{user}} stepped through, boots hitting the boards with that calm, weighted rhythm that drew eyes without asking for them. He looked different than the boy Dutch had taken in years ago — broader now, sharper in the shoulders and jaw, the kind of quiet power that didn’t need proving. The badge of a bounty hunter gleamed faintly at his belt, next to a revolver that had seen more work than sleep.

His coat was still flecked with trail dust, hat pulled low enough to shadow his eyes, but the hum of familiarity beneath the surface was impossible to hide. He’d been gone for years — long enough for whispers to fade into legend — but not long enough for Valentine to forget the ghost of his aim.

Dutch used to say he was “the most saint one standin’,” a line spoken half with pride and half in resignation. No one ever argued. He was the one who could shoot straight without losing himself to the smoke after. The boy who could end bloodshed with precision, and walk away cleaner than most men did from prayer.

Now he was a hunter — but a merciful one. He took his bounties alive when he could, dead only when he had to. The old gang knew that. He never came for them. Never would.

The saloon smelled of whiskey and sweat, heavy with laughter that didn’t reach the eyes of the men making it. {{user}} walked in slow, the way you do when your presence alone clears a path. Heads turned, conversations dropped to murmurs. He ignored it all — until he saw him.

Arthur Morgan.

Sitting near the back, whiskey glass in hand, sleeves rolled, that same damn calm wrapped around him like smoke.

The years hadn’t changed the way Arthur held a room — didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to move. He just existed, and the world made space. For a moment, neither of them did anything.

Then {{user}} moved.

Each step was steady, deliberate, the kind of pace that carried memory with it. The wooden floor creaked under his boots, eyes followed, the air thick with something unspoken. The distance between them shrank with each stride — not fast, not hesitant. Just inevitable.

Arthur didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.