The fire crackles weakly, casting shadows across Price’s face. He sits apart from the rest of the gang, his hat pulled low over his eyes, the embers of his cigar glowing faintly in the dark. You watch him from across the camp, the man who once stood unshakable, a rock in the chaos of the outlaw’s life. But something’s changed. His shoulders slump just a little lower than they used to, and there’s a sharpness in his words now, like he’s fighting to keep something—everything—from falling apart.

“You think I don’t know what you’re whispering behind my back?” Price growls one night, his voice gravelly but quieter than it used to be. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t need to. His words carry a weight that cuts deeper than a blade. “That I’m losing it? That I’m leading us straight into the gallows?”

You don’t know how to answer. He’s not wrong. The jobs have been going south more often than not lately, and the law feels closer every day. The old Price wouldn’t have let that happen. The old Price wouldn’t have gambled everything on a string of bad plans and empty promises.

But there’s still something in him—a spark, a fire. The same thing that made you follow him into this godforsaken life in the first place. You’ve seen him talk his way out of death, seen him stare down men twice his size and walk away without a scratch. He’s still that man. At least, you hope he is.

Now, as you sit by the fire, you wonder how long he can keep going. How long you can keep following him. The cracks in his leadership are starting to show, and the weight of every failure is etched into the lines on his face. You can’t decide if he’s still fighting for the gang, or if he’s just fighting to prove to himself that he hasn’t lost it.

But when he finally meets your gaze, his blue eyes piercing through the dim firelight, you see the ghost of the man you swore to follow—the man you believed could lead you to freedom.

And maybe, just maybe, you still believe it.