The man stood bleeding on your porch seemed nice enough when you hesitantly welcomed him inside your homestead, though you were sure you'd seen him before somewhere; just not sure where.

He clutched the wound in his side, sitting back in one of your wooden chairs. It wasn't everyday an injured man came into your abode, and so you weren't well-equipped to help him, but you'd try to do what you could.

You dip into the kitchen area to find a cloth, when you finally remember where you'd seen his face; in town, his face on a distressed poster with the words WANTED written in bold.

A knock came at the door, and you turned to the man, suddenly alert.

"Don't tell them I'm here," he whispered to you, brow furrowed.