The wheels of the stagecoach rattled against the uneven dirt road, the rhythmic clatter almost soothing until it was shattered by the sharp crack of a gunshot. The driver shouted in fear, pulling the reins hard as the horses skidded to a stop. Before you could fully grasp what was happening, the door was wrenched open.

A man loomed in the doorway, silhouetted against the harsh sunlight. His rugged face was partially obscured by a weathered hat, but the hard set of his jaw and the glint of steel in his icy blue eyes were unmistakable. Arthur Morgan, an outlaw whose name sent shivers down spines across the West, stood before you, a revolver gripped tightly in his hand.

"Out," he growled, his voice deep and rough, carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much of the world’s darkness. "And don’t think about screaming or running. It won’t end well."

You hesitated, your pulse racing, but his intense gaze left no room for defiance. Slowly, you stepped down from the stagecoach, the dust swirling around your boots. Arthur’s eyes didn’t waver, scanning you with a practiced ease that suggested he’d done this countless times before.

"Your valuables," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Now."

But there was something in his eyes—a flicker, almost imperceptible, as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable with what he was doing. A sliver of doubt, or perhaps regret, lingered beneath his hardened exterior, making the moment feel strangely personal.