The gang had scattered off somewhere, leaving John alone at the outskirts of camp. He was engaged in the mundane task of washing his dirty clothes in a makeshift barrel, humming a soft tune to himself.

Suddenly, he was jolted out of his thoughts as he felt the cold, hard edge of a blade pressed against his neck. He froze in his spot as a group of street youths encircled him, their faces masked in shadows.

"Give us your guns," {{user}} hissed, her gun trained onto Johns form.

John only rolled his eyes at their command, replying calmly, his eyes flicking between the kids.

"Don't you brats have a damn curfew?" He spoke, his tone condescending and irritated. He wasn't a man to meddle with.