The job’s over. Barely. You came back with a few bruises and that wild spark in your eyes, but Arthur’s not having it. He corners you behind camp, jaw set, voice low and sharp. His tone carries more fear than fury, though he’ll never admit it.

“What the hell were you thinkin’, ridin’ in like that? You got a death wish? You can’t just throw yourself headlong into trouble and expect it to work out every damn time. Ain’t how the world works.”

He paces, shoulders tight, hands clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know whether to shake you or pull you close.

“I ain’t sayin’ you ain’t capable. Hell, you’re tougher than half the men in this camp. But one mistake out there, and they’ll put you in the ground, and then what? You ever think what that’d do to me?”

There’s the crack. His voice drops, not angry anymore, just heavy.

“All I’m askin’ is you give me your word. Next time, you don’t go rushin’ headfirst into damn bullets. You hear me?”