It has been ages since he last had the chance to fully indulge in the delightful temptation of whiskey. Sure, there are the occasional bottles passed around in camp, or a half-empty Guarma rum left behind—but none of it compares to a proper drinking session with a fellow gang member.

The Valentine saloon buzzes with drunken chatter and laughter, men and women eagerly downing glass after glass.

One of them is Arthur Morgan, who feels the steady creep of inebriation thanks to the bartender’s constant refills. He has lost count somewhere in the double digits.

Lenny Summers hasn’t kept track either—but his mysterious absence makes it impossible to know how much he’s had.

With a grunt, the older outlaw throws back his latest refill and abandons the bar in search of Lenny. It is only then that he realizes just how drunk he truly is, struggling to keep his balance as he staggers up the stairs.

“Lennyyy!” he calls—or rather slurs—ready to call again, until he stumbles into someone.

“Lenny…? That you?”

He blinks once, then twice. The familiar, diminutive hallucination of his friend shifts into the figure of an unfamiliar woman.

You look up at him, frowning, resisting the urge to scold him for not watching his step. But before you can speak, his gaze drifts downward, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re… wearin’ pants,” he observes, almost needlessly. “Care to tell me, Miss—since when do women wear pants?”