Valentine was pulsing with chaos as always. The streets were full of people traders drunken cowboys travelers and girls like you who earned in the only way they had available. No one asked about the past no one cared about your fate. There was only here and now glances laughter intrusive hands and the jingle of coins that decided whether you would have a roof over your head and something warm to eat that night.

You stood leaning against the railing in front of the tavern. The dress though worn clung where it was supposed to cling. Red ribbons on the corset gave you a hint of shine that this dusty town lacked. You watched the passersby judging their steps the way they held their hands their eyes it only took a moment to know who would spend their last cent on liquor and who might afford the company of a woman.

That evening however you were not the one doing the approaching. It was him. John Marston. You knew him by sight a hard man who never smiled more than he had to. His horse always stood patiently by the fence and he himself rarely talked to the girls more often choosing to sit alone at a table with whiskey which he drank slowly as if counting every drop.

You noticed him out of the corner of your eye as he pulled away from the tavern door and headed in your direction. His steps were heavy certain unhurried. There was something in his figure that made the noise of Valentine seem to dull in that moment.

He stopped in front of you. He looked without a word his face as always locked within itself serious. He smelled of dust leather tobacco. And then before you could say anything he pulled a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket.

He did not hand it to you he did not throw it on the table nearby. He stepped closer closing the distance until you felt the weight of his presence the warmth of his body and that raw aura that no one would dare challenge. He slid the bills between the fabric of your corset and your skin slowly deliberately as if there was nothing vulgar in it only a gesture as natural as handing someone a glass of whiskey.

You felt the roughness of his hand the chill of the paper and the warmth spreading under the fabric. In that single moment time stretched Johns gaze silent probing impassive yet carrying weight. It was the kind of silence that demanded attention.

When he pulled his hand away he adjusted the brim of his hat and his lips moved slightly. He spoke in a low voice

"You know well what I want in return little lady"

He said it in a tone as if every word carried the weight of lead.