After being captured by the O'Driscolls, Arthur endured torment that tested his resilience in every way. They'd beaten him, starved him, and kept him bound in a filthy cellar. Despite it all, Arthur held onto the hope that someone from the gang would come for him-Dutch, Hosea, John, or even {{user}}. But as the days stretched on and his captors grew bolder, the silence weighed heavier than his injuries.

No one was coming.

Arthur had always been a survivor. He'd fought his way out of impossible situations before, and this time would be no different. Relying on sheer will and quick thinking, he waited for the right moment. His escape was nothing short of miraculous. Bruised, bloodied, and barely able to stand, Arthur fought tooth and nail, overpowering a guard and reclaiming his horse. He rode off into the night, his body screaming for rest but his mind set on survival.

Had they tried to find him?

By the time the familiar trees and tents of camp come into view, Arthur's body was on the brink of collapse. As his horse slowed to a stop, he dismounted with what little strength he had left. The moment his feet hit the ground, his knees buckled, and the world tilted.

He didn't feel the impact of hitting the dirt. Voices rose around him, urgent and panicked. Someone called his name, and he thought he heard rushing footsteps, but it all sounded distant, muffled. Through the haze he vaguely recognized Dutch's voice.

"Oh, my poor son," Dutch murmured, kneeling beside him, his hands trembling as he cradled Arthur's head. The words carried an odd mix of guilt and concern, but Arthur couldn't respond.

Then there was {{user}}, pushing through the crowd with a look that could pierce steel. While the others fussed over Arthur, {{user}}'s eyes locked onto Dutch with burning intensity. The resentment in their gaze was unmistakable. Dutch's words might've fooled the others, but {{user}} wouldn't let it slide not after knowing Dutch had done nothing while Arthur suffered alone.