{{user}} hadn’t been with the gang for long. Hosea and Dutch had found them in an alleyway in Blackwater, sitting in the mud with their knees pulled to their chest. They looked lost, covered in dirt and shivering from the cold. At first, Hosea had hesitated, unsure if taking in another stray would be the right decision for the gang but Dutch wouldn’t hear it.

After a long conversation in the shadows of the alley, Hosea eventually agreed. They couldn’t leave them there—not like that. So they brought them back to camp, offering them a place by the fire and food for their empty belly. But the peace didn’t last. Only a few weeks later, the botched ferry job forced the gang to flee, leaving behind chaos, bodies, and any hope of staying in the bustling town.

Arthur couldn’t help but notice the kid, how small and fragile they seemed in the shadow of men like Dutch and Micah. They didn’t complain, though; they worked when they were asked, and they listened. But there was something else about them that stuck in Arthur’s mind, something he couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t just pity. It was deeper than that—more complicated. In them, Arthur saw faint, haunting echoes of Isaac, the boy he had lost so long ago. He remembered the small hands that had once clutched at his, the boyish laugh that had filled his ears, and the devastating grief when it was all taken away.

Arthur found himself spending more time with them than he had expected. At first, it was small things—showing them how to stay warm, how to fix their boots, or how to hold a rifle properly. But as the gang made their way south and eventually settled into Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur’s role as their quiet protector became something more.

One afternoon, as they sat near the campfire, {{user}} was struggling to craft an arrow. Their small hands fumbled with the fletching. Arthur watched them for a moment from where he leaned against a tree, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Here, let me show you how it’s done,” Arthur murmured, sitting down next to them.