John Marston had never been afraid of violence. Commitment was another matter entirely. That was the real reason he left. Most people in the Van der Linde gang assumed he ran because of responsibility—because there was suddenly a woman expecting things from him and a child that might’ve been his waiting back at camp. And maybe they were right. John had spent most of his life knowing exactly how to survive, but surviving and staying were different things entirely.

Dutch raised him to ride, rob, shoot, disappear. Hosea taught him enough patience to stay alive. Arthur taught him how to fight dirtier when patience failed. But nobody ever taught John how to be somebody’s husband. Somebody’s father. Nobody taught him how to wake up every morning and belong to the same people without eventually wanting to bolt. So he did. For nearly a month, John drifted across states and towns with no real destination, moving through saloons, rented rooms, muddy roads, and cheap whiskey like a ghost trying unsuccessfully to outrun himself. Sometimes he worked. Sometimes he stole. Sometimes he woke up in places he barely remembered entering. He kept telling himself he was finding freedom again.

Truth was, he’d never felt more trapped in his life. Because no matter how far he rode, thoughts of the gang still followed him. Dutch’s speeches. Arthur’s disappointment. The child he refused to fully claim because claiming him made everything too real. It all sat heavy in the back of his skull like something waiting patiently to catch up. Tonight was no different. Rain hammered softly against the windows of a half-rotten saloon somewhere near the state border, turning the streets outside into rivers of mud and lanternlight. Cigarette smoke hung thick near the ceiling while a piano player stumbled through a tune nobody was listening to anymore. The place smelled like whiskey, wet coats, and desperation.

John sat near the back corner alone, hat pulled low, one arm resting against the table while amber liquor burned slowly down his throat. His revolver remained holstered but visible enough to discourage conversation. Most people left him alone because something about him suggested they should. Which was exactly how he preferred it. His eyes drifted lazily across the room more out of habit than interest. Gamblers. Drunks. Working girls trying to survive another night. Men too loud for their own good. Nothing unusual. Until the shouting started.

John’s gaze shifted toward the far side of the saloon where a young woman stood near the counter, visibly cornered by a man twice her size and twice as drunk. You looked young enough to still have softness left in your expression despite whatever kind of life dragged you into places like this. Small too. Not weak exactly—but outnumbered in a way that made the situation ugly fast.

The man grabbed your wrist hard enough for you to yank backward immediately. “You think you can just walk away from me?” he snapped loudly, slurring slightly. A few people glanced over. Nobody intervened. Of course they didn’t. You jerked your arm again, sharper this time, trying to pull free while the man laughed meanly beneath his breath. John watched your expression tighten—not frightened exactly. Angry. Embarrassed. Like you hated the fact this was happening publicly more than the danger itself.

Interesting. The bartender deliberately looked away. A couple men near the poker table smirked into their drinks. One woman rolled her eyes like scenes like this happened too often to matter anymore. John stayed still. Not because he approved. Because he was thinking. The old version of him—the one Dutch helped raise—would’ve stepped in already, probably with a gun halfway drawn and blood about thirty seconds behind it. But months alone had changed something in him. Or maybe just worn something down.