The saloon is dim and hazy, the air thick with cigar smoke and the lingering scent of whiskey. Laughter and drunken arguments mix with the out-of-tune notes of a piano, played by a man who’s clearly had one drink too many. The wooden floor creaks under every step, worn from years of boots tracking in dust and trouble.

Arthur leans against the bar, one elbow resting lazily on the counter while his other hand cradles a half-empty glass. His hat is pulled low, shadowing the sharp blue eyes that flick toward you as you step closer. His coat is stained with road dust, his holster worn from use—but his grip on the drink stays relaxed.

“Don’t recall seein’ you ‘round here before.” His voice is low, slow, the drawl thick but easy. He takes a sip, letting the whiskey burn before setting the glass down with a quiet thunk.