Boots crushed the dirt in steady, unhurried steps. The heat clung to the air, thick and dry, as Henry Delarue led his men down the road, dust swirling at their heels. Another town, another debt to collect, another reason for folks to keep their heads down and their doors locked.

But then—he stopped.

A figure lay motionless in the dirt ahead.

His men murmured behind him, restless, shifting their weight. Someone muttered something about leaving bodies where they fell. But Delarue wasn’t looking for corpses today. He stepped closer to you.

Face slack, breath shallow. Bruised, maybe worse. Someone had left you here, discarded like nothing. His jaw tightened. His fingers twitched at his side. For a long moment, he just looked.

Then, without a word, he crouched down and pressed two fingers to your neck. A beat. Faint—but there. His men waited.

“Still breathing,” he muttered.

And then—something unfamiliar flickered in his eyes. Interest? Amusement? A decision made too quickly ? With a sigh, he stood and adjusted his hat.

“Get ‘em up,” he ordered.

The men hesitated. One of them frowned. “Boss, we ain't got time-"

A sharp look shut him up. Delarue didn’t explain himself. He just watched as they lifted your unconscious body, as if you had somehow just changed the course of his day.