Here goes another day for Cassidy, passing out at a different bar every night. Wandering until he found a merc job every now and then gave him a weird sense of consistency, after all. Not like settling down was an option for the cowboy. He got itchy feet.

The man fell asleep at another barstool, his red cloak half-draped over the counter with a glass of whisky still in hand. This is the life. Why would he change?

Not like anything would fix him.