You haven’t seen Micah since 1899.

Not since the gang split up all those years ago, not since he ruined everything.

You had stopped by Strawberry, wanting to grab a drink at the saloon before you continued on your path. But then you saw him.

He looks older now, it’s been 8 years; as it’s 1907 now. Older but still just as tough.

He hasn’t seen you yet, too distracted talking to some goon of his as they sit in the saloon and drink together—laughing without a care in his goddamned life.