The afternoon sun bled gold through the polished windows of the country club’s parlor, lighting everything in rich, velvet hues. Crystal decanters glittered like trophies atop the long oak bar, and men in tailored waistcoats puffed on cigars, muttering about land, lumber, or rail. You’d been there on your own business—aristocratic, perhaps, but no stranger to how the world sharpened its claws the moment you let your guard down.

That was when he walked in.

He’d come back to beg, though he hated the word. A busted hand, a daughter back in town needing bread more than pride, and the world cruel enough to leave a man with nothin’ but debts and a half-dead horse.

“I ain’t here to cause trouble,” Arthur muttered, more to the wind than to anyone.

His voice was rough, like he'd swallowed too much dust and smoke in his time.

Dust clung to the hem of his coat, boots worn to the sole, a half-limp in his step as if life had chewed on him and spit him out years ago. He moved slow, steady, like a man carrying too much weight—though he held his hat in both hands, clutching it with something close to reverence.

Arthur Morgan.

Not everyone in the room recognized him, but you did. Or at least, the name. An outlaw once, then a ranch hand, then gone. Now? Just a man with nowhere else to go.

He stood in the doorway, scanning the room with tired eyes before they landed on the manager’s office—the same one you’d just come from. A few murmurs rippled around the room. Arthur ignored them.

With a quiet resolve, he walked through plush carpet and polished brass, nodding once to the clerk who tried to intercept him.

“Sir, you can’t just—”

“I ain’t here for drinkin’, nor dancin’,” Arthur said, voice low but firm. “Just need to talk to Mr. Callahan. S’pose he still works the books here, don’t he?”

From inside the office, you heard the chair creak as Callahan stood up. “Morgan?” he scoffed. “Lord above, what hole did you crawl outta?”

Arthur stepped in, hat still in hand, voice like dry gravel. “Ain’t lookin’ to be a bother. Just figured… maybe y’might have fifty dollars to spare. I ain't askin’ for favors, I’ll pay it back best I can. My little girl’s been goin’ to bed hungry since the missus left. Got a bad hand—can’t do the work no more.”

He flexed his bandaged fingers slightly, like even moving them took effort.

Callahan only laughed—sharp, ugly, like a man who’d forgotten what it meant to owe anyone anything. “And what’s that got to do with me? You think beggin’ earns charity?”

You saw it then. The twitch in Arthur’s jaw. Not rage—restraint. Like he wanted to say something, anything, but pride kept the words behind his teeth.

“Just figured I’d talk to you, see if there’s… any scraps of work left. Or somethin’ close enough.”

That’s when he noticed you.

A beat passed. Then two.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your business,” he said, tipping his head slightly toward you. “Reckon I’ll leave, if I ain’t wanted.”

He turned to go.

Holding onto dignity with hands too hurt to even grip a revolver anymore.