The saloon in Valentine was its usual mess of noise and spilled whiskey, filled with the scent of sweat, sawdust, and bad decisions. You weren’t much for the crowds, but the coin was good, and your voice kept the rowdier ones from breaking too many chairs.

Perched on the edge of the small stage with your guitar in hand and dust still on your boots, you sang low and slow—songs about outlaws and lost love, the kind that made even the drunkest ranch hand go quiet for a verse or two. That’s when you noticed him—leaning in the far corner, hat low, but eyes sharp. Watching you like the words meant more than they should.

John Marston wasn’t a man you expected to linger after a song, but he did. He didn’t say much at first—just offered you a drink with a nod, the kind of quiet invitation that spoke louder than words. You weren’t sure what drew him in, but something about him felt steady beneath the rough edges.

There was history in his silence, and when he finally spoke, it was with the voice of someone who’d seen too much and was still trying to live with it. You’d heard a lot of stories in your travels, but his… you could tell it was one worth hearing, even if he wasn’t ready to tell it yet.

— “You’re different from most folks around here” John said, his voice rough but not unkind. He took a long pull from his drink, his eyes never leaving you.