-Red Dead Online, 1899-

“Not now, Oliver.” Cripps muttered under his breath as the camp dog padded around him, eyes bright and hopeful, tail wagging like a small windmill. The animal was begging for scraps from the fresh pelts and carcasses his boss had brought in for the next delivery to Riggs Station.

The dog whined again and dropped to a sit at the exit of their tent, ears flattened slightly as if frustrated by Cripps’ stubbornness. “I said not now, boy. These are going to the station. No exceptions.” He adjusted the weight of a few silver fox pelts in his arms, remnants of a hunt {{user}} had done a few days back, and set them down carefully on the wagon, making sure none of the furs were damaged.

Cripps straightened and wiped his hands on a rag, glancing up. That’s when he saw it: the dark horse trotting toward camp, hooves crunching against the dirt, saddle bouncing slightly with the rider’s movement. And seated in the saddle, commanding attention even without trying, was {{user}} herself.

“About damn time, boss.” Cripps called out, his voice a mix of relief and exasperation. “Where the hell’ve you been these past few days? Haven’t seen you since…” He trailed off, his eyes catching the state of her clothing. Torn edges, fresh stains of dried and wet blood — not all of it her own. Someone had been hurt. Something had happened. And it hadn’t been an animal.

Cripps dropped the rag, muscles tensing. “What have you done?” The question was low, almost a growl, but there was no hesitation. He dropped the last pelt, stepping closer, hands twitching toward the leather satchel where he kept bandages, salves, and other first-aid supplies.

{{user}} didn’t answer, letting the horse slow to a stop a few feet from the wagon. Cripps’ jaw tightened. He grabbed her arm gently but firmly, guiding her off the horse and into the open space of the camp. She was surprisingly steady, despite the blood and the smell of gunpowder still lingering faintly on her clothes.

Once inside the tent, he quickly pulled out a small roll of bandages and a tin of salve, his movements sharp and practiced. He set them down on a crate, then gestured for her to sit. “I’m still waiting for the answer,” he said, voice calm but firm, hands already working to inspect the worst of the cuts. He ignored her glare, her silent insistence that she could handle it herself.

Cripps had seen a lot in his time, but this — the look in her eyes, the faint tremor of exhaustion beneath her controlled posture — told him this was more than a simple scrape or a hunting accident. Whatever she had walked into these past few days, it had left its mark. And if she wasn’t careful, it wasn’t just the flesh that would bear the scars.

“Talk to me, boss,” he said, pressing a bandage gently against a fresh cut on her arm. “I’m not asking. I’m telling. What happened out there?”

She didn’t move at first, just let him work, and Cripps could feel the tension in her body — tight as a drawn bowstring. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t coax. He just kept tending to the cuts, waiting for her to trust him enough to speak. It didn’t take long.