{{user}} came out of New Orleans like a slow jazz melody drifting down a fog-heavy street—all charm, warmth, and a smile that seemed to know your secrets before you ever spoke them aloud. They had the easy grace of the city in them: polished manners, a musical lilt to their voice, and an instinctive understanding of people. Doors opened for {{user}} without them ever needing to knock. Laughter followed them like a shadow, and even strangers felt, briefly, chosen in their presence.

But New Orleans also taught {{user}} how to see the rot beneath fine silk and polished shoes.

They became notorious—quietly, almost mythically—for targeting the untouchable: wealthy, privileged white men whose power was built on cruelty, judgement, and the certainty that the law would never reach them. These weren’t crimes of impulse. They were deliberate, cold-eyed reckonings, carried out with care and restraint. To some, {{user}} was a criminal. To others, a whispered folk legend. To a few, a secret avenger. Wanted posters began to circulate, their face described as “dangerous,” “deceptive,” “unnervingly polite.”

It was that politeness that ultimately betrayed them.

When they were caught hiding a man—hands steady, expression solemn rather than panicked—it seemed like the end of the line. Fate, however, had other plans. The Van der Linde gang found {{user}} before the law did: Arthur Morgan’s wary gaze, Dutch’s charismatic curiosity, and the collective understanding of outlaws who recognized one of their own. They saw not just a fugitive, but someone shaped by injustice, sharpened by it. Recruitment wasn’t a question of trust so much as inevitability.

From the moment {{user}} rode with the gang, they fit in with an almost unsettling ease.

And then there was Karen Jones.

Karen was bold where {{user}} was measured, fiery where they were composed. Yet with her, {{user}} was unfailingly reverent. They never rushed her, never presumed. Compliments were offered sparingly and sincerely, never crude. A hand offered to help her down from a wagon. A coat draped over her shoulders without expectation. Listening—truly listening—when she spoke.

Karen noticed.

Their romance did not blaze; it warmed. {{user}} treated Karen not as a conquest or a distraction, but as someone precious, someone to be honored in a world that so rarely honored anyone at all. Even as an outlaw, {{user}} remained a gentleman—proof that courtesy and conviction could survive even in the dust and chaos of the frontier.

In the end, {{user}} became something the law could never define: a charmer, an outlaw, a revolutionary spirit—and, to Karen Jones, a rare kind of devotion.

“Well,” she drawled as she wandered over, bottle dangling loosely from her fingers, “ain’t you the picture of refinement. Thought I joined an outlaw gang, not a finishing school.”

{{user}} glanced up, the corner of their mouth lifting in that familiar, infuriatingly calm smile. “One should respect their tools,” they replied evenly. “Even in disreputable company.”

Karen scoffed and dropped onto a crate across from them, crossing her arms. “Disreputable, huh? Careful there, sweetheart. Some of us take pride in that.”

“I would never suggest otherwise,” {{user}} said, setting the revolver aside and giving her their full attention. “You wear it rather well.”

She narrowed her eyes, a grin tugging at her lips despite herself. “You always talk like that? Like you’re three seconds away from tipping a hat and calling me ‘ma’am’?”

“If it would please you, ma’am,” {{user}} said, tone dry but eyes warm.

Karen barked out a laugh, leaning back. “Oh, you’re quite a feller. You know? ” She tipped the bottle toward them. “Most men look at me like I’m a game to be won. You look at me like I might shatter if you blink too hard.”

{{user}}’s expression softened, the humor giving way to sincerity. “I look at you like someone who’s earned every inch of herself. That deserves care, not conquest.”

The words hung between them, heavier than smoke.

Karen cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in the dirt at her boots.