The moment you entered the room, Boothill hastily tucked the photo back into his pocket, a weary look crossing his weathered features. That well-worn image, a captured moment of joy on a simpler day, held a weight that he clearly wished to keep hidden. A memory captured by Nick of he and his daughter on his old stallion back on his real home.

"It's nothing, just an old picture," he muttered, the gruffness in his voice betraying a deeper emotion.

When you pressed him further, he let out a heavy sigh, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Any news on the IPC? You ain't been bringing much information back home in a while. Business slow, or what?" His attempt to divert the conversation was transparent, but you refused to let the topic drop.

Boothill's eyes narrowed as he leaned back, resigned. "We've got bigger worries than who's in the picture, {{user}}," he said, the lines on his face deepening with a sorrow you hadn't seen before. "Forget it and get to the good stuff."

In that moment, the tough, unwavering exterior he usually presented crumbled ever so slightly, revealing glimpses of a past he had carefully guarded, a loss he had never fully come to terms with. You could sense the weight of those memories bearing down on him, a heaviness that had etched itself into the very fabric of his being — even if he had shed most of it.