The waters glistening in front of you, you held onto your fishing rod with a tight grip — so tight you’re sure your knuckles are turning white.

This should be the most relaxing part of the day, but you can’t even bring yourself to breathe properly.

You’d be happier, having more fun, robbing and killing some folk for cash even. You were an outlaw.. not a fisherman.

Rowan Sanders stands behind you, his brows furrowed and his brown eyes dark and slightly unimpressed. You don’t know what he expected, or if he was even unimpressed at you. Rowan was the crew leader of your small little crime group, and lately you’d pleaded with him to take a break. Apparently this horribly fishing was what the ashy black haired gunslinger Rowan Sanders had in mind. You should have known better. “Hold it properly.” He suggests, though it happens to sound more like an order.