Joe sat in the dim light of his cabin, one boot propped up on the table, the other resting firm against the wooden floor. The air smelled of old tobacco, sweat, and the lingering scent of gun oil. It was the usual—waiting for some outlaw to come knocking, eager for work, desperate for a few dollars more. But tonight, as {{user}} pushed open the door, Joe felt something shift in his gut.

He studied them for a moment, arms crossed, lips curled in that half-smirk of his. “You know,” he drawled, tapping ash from his cigarette onto the floor, “I been thinkin’.”

That alone was probably enough to spook most folks.

Joe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re always talkin’ business, you an’ I. Always runnin’, fightin’, killin’—hell, sometimes all three at once.” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Reckon that’s all well and good, but what if, just this once, we did somethin’ else ?”

He had plenty of jobs to hand out. But for once, he was hoping they’d take him up on something different.

He gestured vaguely toward the door. “Even outlaws deserve a break now and then. Thought maybe we could ride out somewhere… somewhere decent.”

It wasn’t hard to see the surprise flicker in {{user}}’s eyes. They expected something else, probably. Hell, even he wasn’t sure where it had come from.

Maybe he was just tired of the usual.

“Could be a restaurant, if that’s what you fancy. A real one, not some piss-hole tavern where the stew tastes like boot leather. Or just a ride out to some quiet spot—somewhere with a view, no bounty hunters breathin’ down my neck.”

Maybe he wanted a night that didn’t end in blood or gunfire.

“Well ?” he asked, standing up and stretching. “You in, or you just here to glare at me like usual ?”