O'Driscolls. Arthur had always hated them. If he had his way, he'd put every last one of them in the dirt without a second thought. He’d grown up being told they were nothing but snakes, rats, and cowards. And after everything he'd seen, he believed it.

Unfortunately, {{user}} was an O'Driscoll. Young, too—around Arthur’s age, give or take a year. That didn’t make them any less of a problem. So when Dutch sent Arthur into town in the middle of the night to fetch ingredients for stew, Arthur grumbled about it but went anyway, his hat pulled low over his eyes as he rode.

It wasn’t long before he spotted trouble. A familiar, grating snicker caught his attention. There, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, {{user}} stood alongside another O’Driscoll, both of them cornering some poor soul. They prodded at the kid—barely more than a scrawny teenager—shoving and taunting him like it was some kind of sport.

"Look at him squirm," {{user}} laughed, nudging the boy hard enough to send him stumbling. "Ain't got a lick of fight in him. Pathetic."

The other O'Driscoll chuckled. "Bet he'd cry if we just—"

The words died in his throat when Arthur stepped into the light. His eyes were sharp, his jaw set tight.

"The hell’s goin’ on here?" His voice was low and dangerous.

The second O’Driscoll barely hesitated before turning tail and bolting, the frightened kid scrambling away right after. But {{user}}—they didn't run. They turned to face Arthur, smirking, hands in their pockets like they had all the time in the world.

"Well, well," they drawled, "if it ain’t Arthur Morgan. What, you gonna give me a lecture 'bout playin' nice?"

Arthur didn’t answer right away. His hand twitched toward his gun, fingers flexing against the worn leather of his holster.

"Somethin’ like that," he muttered.