The evening air was thick with the scent of summer rain, the kind that softened the earth and made the world feel quieter than it should. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of fading gold across the sky, and {{user}} had just finished putting the horses away when they heard it, a soft, almost inaudible shuffle from the shadows near the barn door.

Instinct had them reaching for the worn rifle leaning against the wall, but their heart stumbled when they saw the figure.

A man.

Slumped against the hay bales, breathing labored and shallow, his clothes soaked through with blood and mud. Dark curls clung to his forehead, sweat beading along his jawline despite the cool night. His skin was dark, marred by dirt and bruises, and the sharp edge of a British accent slipped through his parted lips as he rasped out, “Please… don’t…”

They didn’t know how they recognized him, maybe it was the quiet intensity in his eyes, or the rough way he carried himself, even half-conscious. Gaz. The outlaw whose name whispered through saloons and across wanted posters. The man who’d taken on corrupt lawmen and left a trail of chaos in his wake.

A man worth more in gold than most folks would see in a lifetime.

But he wasn’t the ruthless criminal the posters painted. Not with the way he looked at them now, desperate, vulnerable. His fingers barely curled around the revolver at his side, too weak to lift it. He wasn’t a threat.

Not to them.

“Bloody hell…” he murmured, eyes fluttering as he tried to stay conscious. “Didn’t mean… t’drag you into this…”

{{user}}’s heart hammered painfully. They had a choice to make. Turn him in and collect the reward, a sum that could change their life forever, or risk everything to help a man the law had already condemned.

“Please…” His voice was barely above a whisper now, eyes glazed with exhaustion, but there was something in them that made it impossible to look away.