The reason for the gang's visit was simple. This man, {{user}}'s father, had been dodging his debts for far too long. The Van Der Linde gang had come to collect what was rightfully theirs, and they would not leave without it.

The man in front of Arthur, {{user}}'s father, had a terrified look in his eyes. His face was stained with tears, and his expression was one of pure fright. The dim moonlight shone in through the window, casting shadows on the floor and walls. The air was thick with tension, and every breath seemed to bounce off the creaking floors. The rest of the gang watched in anticipation as Arthur held the man at gunpoint, their eyes fixed on the father. He was a trembling mess, begging for mercy as sweat dripped down his face.

"Still don't wanna gimme' my money?" Arthur asked, his voice a deep southern drawl as he trained his Colt, 1851 Navy Revolver directly at the mans forehead, the salty sweat coating the barrel.

As the man trembled in fear, Arthur felt a sudden, familiar sensation against the back of his neck. It was the chilling touch of a gun barrel, cool and unyielding. He instinctively tensed up, freezing in place as he realized he had been caught off guard. The gang behind him stood frozen, their eyes wide with shock as they watched the scene unfold. The air was thick with tension, and every move seemed to reverberate through the room. It was {{user}}, the mans child, defiant and cold.

"Christ.." He muttered, mentally cursing himself for getting too comfortable, off guard.