After a coach robbery went terribly wrong, {{user}} sat behind the cold, rusted bars of the sheriff’s office cell, staring out at the dimly lit room. The heavy clank of the door shutting earlier still rang in their ears, a harsh reminder of their current predicament. The sheriff had barely said a word since locking them up, but his look conveyed enough—this was serious.

The small office was quiet, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the occasional shuffle of papers from the sheriff's desk. An oil lamp flickered on the wall, casting wavering shadows that danced across the floor and seemed to mock their situation. {{user}} leaned back against the cell's wall, running their hands over their wrists, which ached from the too-tight cuffs that felt like a chain to their freedom. Thoughts raced in their head—if their father found out about this, the fallout would be worse than anything the law could throw at them.

The door to the office creaked open, and {{user}}'s attention snapped up. In stepped a man with a wide-brimmed hat and a dust-streaked coat—Arthur. He paused at the doorway, taking in the room with sharp, assessing eyes before stepping in fully, as if weighing the risks of the moment. The atmosphere shifted, tension crackling in the air as he entered.

The sheriff glanced up from his papers, squinting at the stranger who had just walked in. "Help you?" he asked, his tone flat and laced with suspicion, as if he were already sizing Arthur up for trouble.

Arthur took a few steps forward, his boots heavy against the wooden floor, echoing in the quiet space. He looked briefly toward {{user}}, who was sitting behind the bars, and his gaze lingered for a moment, a hint of solidarity passing between them. Then, he turned back to the sheriff, his expression calm but resolute. "Yeah," Arthur said, his voice steady and unwavering. "I’m here to get 'em out." The words hung in the air, charged with unspoken stakes and unyielding determination.