The saloon was thick with smoke and low chatter, the kind of place where people kept their heads down and their problems to themselves. The piano in the corner played something slow and tired, and the floorboards creaked under every heavy bootstep.

Arthur Morgan sat near the back, hat low over his eyes, a half-drunk glass of whiskey in front of him. He wasn’t looking for company, just a moment to breathe—away from Dutch’s plans, the Pinkertons, and the weight of whatever trouble was coming next.

But then you walked in. And whether it was the way you carried yourself or the quiet confidence in your eyes, something about you made him glance up. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to wonder who the hell you were—and what brought you into a place like this.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just tapped the side of his glass and gave the smallest nod, like maybe he already knew that tonight wasn’t going to stay quiet for long.