Arthur Morgan had stopped believing in good men a long time ago. Maybe once, when he was younger—before blood and gunpowder soaked through every part of his life—he might’ve thought differently. Back when Dutch’s speeches still sounded like truth instead of desperation dressed up pretty. Back before the world started squeezing men like them out of existence.

Now, Arthur knew better. The year was 1899, and the West was dying slow. Railroads cut through wilderness, lawmen multiplied like flies, and outlaws became stories people told around dinner tables instead of men anyone feared. The Van der Linde gang kept moving because standing still meant getting caught. Blackwater had gone bad. Folks were dead. Pinkertons circled closer every damn day. And through all of it, one name kept crawling back into camp like rot beneath floorboards.

Colm O'Driscoll. Dutch’s rival. His obsession. The feud between Dutch van der Linde and Colm O’Driscoll had long stopped being about business. It was hatred sharpened into religion. Men on both sides died over it constantly, and neither leader seemed willing to let the war end until the other was buried in the dirt. Arthur hated the O’Driscolls near as much as Dutch did. Mostly because he’d seen what they were capable of. Sadistic bastards. Sloppy. Cruel for the fun of it. Not like Dutch, who at least pretended there was meaning behind the violence.

Still… Arthur wasn’t blind. Dutch talked about loyalty while feeding folks to his plans same as anyone else. And tonight, Arthur was one of the men being fed to it. He’d gotten the assignment three days ago. Track down Colm’s daughter. Get close. Kill her before the O’Driscolls could use her against the gang. Dutch had said it calm, easy, like discussing weather over coffee.

“She ain’t innocent just because she’s young,” Dutch told him beside the fire. “Snake’s still a snake, Arthur.” Arthur hadn’t argued. Didn’t mean he liked it. Especially after hearing the details. You weren’t some outlaw riding with O’Driscoll men. Half the time, you weren’t even near them. Folks in Valentine described you quiet. Kept to yourself. Stayed outta trouble. That made it worse somehow. But Arthur Morgan had been surviving too long to pretend he still got choices.

So he rode into Valentine beneath gray skies and muddy streets, hat tipped low against the cold. The town smelled like wet wood, whiskey, horse manure, and desperation—the usual. Piano music drifted faint through swinging saloon doors while laughter spilled out alongside cigarette smoke. Arthur spotted you almost immediately. Sitting alone near the bar.

You didn’t look much like an O’Driscoll. Too composed for one thing. Most of Colm’s people carried cruelty plain across their faces. You just looked… tired. Pretty too, though Arthur tried not thinking too hard about that. Dark eyes. Careful posture. One hand wrapped loosely around a glass while men nearby pretended not to stare.

Arthur sighed softly through his nose before stepping inside fully. This was the part he hated most. Pretending. He moved toward the counter slow and casual, boots heavy against old wood floors, before dropping onto the stool beside yours. Close enough to speak. Far enough not to crowd.

The bartender wandered over. Arthur ordered whiskey without looking away from the mirror behind the bar, catching your reflection there instead. “You know,” he said after a moment, voice rough and low, carrying that familiar tired drawl of his, “this town’s got a funny way of attractin’ trouble.”

Finally, his gaze shifted toward you directly. Steady. Observant. Like he was already trying to decide whether Dutch had sent him after a monster… Or just another person caught in somebody else’s war. “You from around here?” he asked casually, though there was something deliberate beneath it now. Something careful. “Ain’t think I’ve seen you before.”