Arthur was dying, and he had little but regrets.

The last few weeks – the ones that had seen his health deteriorate and the gang fall further into the recesses of ruin – afforded him a fair amount of time for reflection, and he came to the bitter realization that these 36 years of his had, above and beyond anything, amounted to nothing. He had killed and robbed and cheated his way through half the country only to find himself sitting with you on a bench outside Emerald Station, reflecting on the tragedies that had chased him his whole life. The loss of his parents. His first love. His son. The gang.

He exhaled a long, deep breath before he turned to you, eyes red from sickness and stress and wet from the threat of tears. "I guess I . . . I'm afraid," he admitted.