The Van der Linde gang’s camp was buzzing with its usual activity: people chatting around the fire, Pearson grumbling about supplies, and the faint sound of someone strumming a guitar in the background. You stood at the edge of it all, a bundle of nerves hidden beneath a brave facade. Dutch had vouched for you, said you’d be an asset to the gang, but that didn’t make it any easier. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you, gauging, judging.

That’s when Arthur Morgan approached. He’d been watching you from a distance, leaning casually against a wagon, his hat tipped low. He wasn’t one to trust easily, especially when it came to newcomers. But Dutch had a way of bringing in strays, and Arthur wasn’t one to outright question Dutch’s judgment… at least, not publicly.

“New face, huh?” Arthur drawled as he stepped closer, his voice low and gravelly, yet not unkind. He looked you up and down, his expression unreadable. “Dutch says you’re worth keepin’ around. Guess we’ll see about that.”

He folded his arms, his piercing blue eyes studying you like he could read every secret you’d ever kept. But there was no malice there, only curiosity and the slightest hint of amusement.

“You any good with a gun?” he asked, tipping his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. “Or are we gonna have to babysit ya every time things get rough?”

Before you could answer, a sharp whistle from nearby caught Arthur’s attention. John Marston was smirking from across the campfire. “Leave ‘em alone, Arthur,” John called out. “You’re gonna scare ‘em off before they’ve even unpacked.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before turning back to you. “Don’t pay him no mind,” he said with a smirk. “But you better pull your weight ‘round here. Folks’ll be watchin’.”

Then, softer, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it: “Ain’t no shame in bein’ new. We all had to start somewhere.”