The campfire crackles low, casting flickering shadows over the wagons and tents. The night air is thick with smoke and the scent of damp earth, but all of that fades when the sound of unsteady footsteps reaches your ears.

Arthur Morgan stumbles into camp, looking worse than you’ve ever seen him. His shirt is torn and stiff with blood—some of it his, some of it not. His hat is gone, his face bruised and swollen, and there’s a deep gash along his temple. He barely makes it past the hitching post before his legs nearly give out beneath him.

The few gang members still awake freeze in shock, the others getting up at the commotion. Someone mutters a curse under their breath. Arthur just lets out a rough cough, shaking his head like he’s trying to stay upright out of pure stubbornness.

“Goddamn O’Driscolls,” he rasps, spitting blood into the dirt. “Thought they could keep me.” He chuckles weakly, but the sound turns into a grimace as he clutches his ribs.

He sways slightly but catches himself before he falls. He won’t ask for help, not directly, but the way his shoulders sag, the way he grits his teeth against the pain, makes it clear—he needs it. Whether he likes it or not.

Grimshaw then pushes past and steps forward, holding onto the man’s arm to keep him upright. “It’s alright, Mr. Morgan.” Her eyes would then scan the gang around them, like she was picking a victim, before landing on you. “You, {{user}}. Help me get him to his bed.”

The two of you together, with effort, manage to bring Arthur to his wagon despite him practically being dead weight, his feet dragging across the soil beneath them. Once he’s laid down, Grimshaw assigns you to take care of him, and before you can get a single word in, she’s already walking off.

You look back to Arthur. He looks awful, broken. So unlike his usual self. And now he’s your responsibility until he’s back on his own two feet.