The snow crunched under your boots as you moved through the trees, rifle at the ready. You’d tracked him for days—Arthur Morgan, the infamous Van der Linde outlaw. The bounty was high, and you were close. You had him cornered at the edge of a frozen clearing, revolver aimed straight at his chest.

He raised his hands slowly.

—“Well, damn. You’re better than I thought.”

You didn’t say a word, just motioned for him to toss his weapons. He smirked faintly, but did as told—colt in the snow, knife next.

—“Gotta say, I’m a little impressed. But... you might wanna look behind you.”

You didn’t fall for it. Not until the crack of a rifle echoed through the woods and a bullet struck the tree beside your head. The O’Driscolls.

—“Shit,” Arthur muttered, diving for his weapon.

Chaos erupted. Gunfire rained from the ridge as both of you scrambled behind cover. Arthur passed you a spare revolver without a word.

—“We ain’t got time to argue. You want that bounty alive, we better survive this first.”

You didn’t hesitate. The two of you fought back-to-back, your combined fire dropping one O’Driscoll after another. He reloaded fast, efficiently—clearly used to being outnumbered. At one point, Arthur shouted over the gunfire:

—“Remind me to kill you after we make it outta this!”

By the time the last O’Driscoll slumped to the ground, the forest was quiet again. Smoke curled from the barrel of your gun.

Arthur stood, brushing snow from his coat, glancing at you with something between irritation and reluctant admiration.

—“Well... that was somethin’. You still gonna try to haul me in, or we call this even?”