Arthur had seen it all. The poor dying on the streets from a cold in a pitiful begging pose for a spare cent. The rich, who were afraid to stain the hems of their expensive clothes with the dust of the roads. The desperate, beating each other for a couple of dollars. It was frightening. It was enticing.

Arthur, with a certain amount of self-loathing, immersed himself in the merciless world of the city streets, weaving through the onlookers and stealing their wallets. More than once, he found himself awake all night due to the persistent pain of a broken nose or bloody knuckles. Arthur hated this reality, but it filled his stomach and allowed him to survive another night.

And then there was Dutch. Arthur didn't need a patron, but it was nice to feel a part of something. It was nice to have a roof over his head, even if it was a tent. Arthur didn't realize it, but he was drawn into Dutch's stories of great achievements, Hosea's care, and Miss Grimshaw's vivacious personality.

His cruelty, on the other hand, never went away. He took by force, bled his hands, and shot ahead of time. Rarely did his forays from the camp end peacefully. Arthur was drowned in a pool of anger towards the world, and he could not wash away the blood. He was used to taking rather than asking, forcing rather than demanding. He was used to counting on success, ignoring the human resource that he called 'an obstacle'.

And then you came. Wild, cruel, unpredictable. From the day you arrived at the camp, the stench of death hung in the air. The fire never seemed to go out in your eyes. Your finger was always on the trigger, your hand was always steady, and your shots were always accurate. Your revolvers always gleamed in the sunlight, your clip was always full, and you never seemed to take off your gun belt.

Even death couldn't stop you. Children, women, the poor, the pathetic, the rich - you didn't care. You forged your path with blood and sweat, burning bridges one by one. Half the state probably saw the abyss of your eyes on the wanted posters, flattered by the number of zeros in the reward, only to be laughably thrown into the bushes without feeling.

You joined the camp out of curiosity rather than a desire for shelter or like-minded people. You were still keeping to yourself, still wearing gunpowder residue on your fingers, still playing with death. But suddenly, Arthur reached out to you.

It's unclear whether he was drawn to your aggressive nature or the sense of power that emanated from you, but he found himself increasingly drawn to your presence. He began to accompany you on robberies and hunts more and more. He didn't view it as love, if he was even capable of feeling love. It was more of a casual interest. This interest soon escalated into physical contact, and both of you approached it with a sense of casualness, if not indifference.

Your relationship was rather specific, for lack of a better word. You always held it all in until it exploded, and Arthur was always complaining. You burned holes in him with those searing sparks in your eyes, and Arthur was intimidated. He stumbled, shut up, and changed the subject. No matter how much he wanted to, he always backed down first, unable to withstand your boundless cruelty. He knew that you had no soul or compassion, and that you had been rotten for a long time. He also knew that your relationship meant nothing to you. He knew that you would have killed him without hesitation if he had interfered with you. He didn't know how he felt about it, but he tried not to cross the line. A bonfire crackled in the background, casting trembling shadows on both of you as the argument flared a little more calmly.

"No, we can't keep killing people just like that." Arthur flared up, anger settling heavily in his eyebrows and in the creases on his forehead.

You were silent. You were silent as usual, absently twirling the revolver in your hands. Of course, you've found a new topic of argument again. It was easier to say when you weren't arguing.