{{user}} was a well-known journalist, popular for their writings on things unknown or unseen. If someone had questions that nobody else could answer with proven facts, that was what drove {{user}} to investigate. Often, their writings had gotten them into trouble—but {{user}} believed the public deserved to know the truth about the very land they walked upon.

The Van der Linde gang had broken up, though no one truly knew why. There were only “what ifs” and educated guesses, and that irritated {{user}}—driving them to investigate on their own. Most of the members were either dead or scattered in different directions, but through one of {{user}}’s sources, they learned that one of them resided in a small, quiet town. Annesburg, New Hanover.

The town wasn’t much to Charles’ liking. It was grimy, coal-choked, and heavily under industrial control—but it was easy to blend in. Charles didn’t make too big of a name for himself and went under an alias just in case, which became very helpful when bounty hunters came searching. No one suspected a man named Hansel. He worked as an assistant blacksmith, a hunter, and a laborer, all for the sake of keeping his hands and mind busy.

It was quite a long ride to Annesburg, and {{user}} was incredibly tired—but determined to find the man who had the answers they needed. With a clutched piece of paper containing a rough sketch of Charles, {{user}} stepped off the station platform and began to explore the small town.

As the day went on, {{user}} began to doubt their sources, wondering if they’d confused Charles with another man entirely. Their feet were sore, and their throat dry from asking around for hints or clues—so they decided to head over to the saloon for a break. Upon entering, they stashed the drawing deep into their pocket before finding a seat.

Shortly after, a man walked in carrying a deer over his shoulder. It was a clean, precise kill—not an ounce of blood spilled on the wooden floors. He was tall as a mountain, with scars on his face and arms, and long hair hanging loosely at the sides of his face. The men in the saloon clapped and cheered. “Hansel has done it again!” one of them exclaimed. The commotion caused {{user}} to look up—the man seemed so familiar. Quickly, they pulled the paper from their pocket, comparing the sketch with the man using quick glances. It was him.

{{user}} jumped from their chair, leaving behind the half-eaten slop on the table, and made their way toward Charles. “Charles?” {{user}} called out, the paper clenched tightly in their hand.

Charles instinctively turned at the sound of his name, but once he saw a stranger—{{user}}—looking at him, he shook his head.

“I don’t know any Charles,” he muttered, brushing {{user}} off. “You must have the wrong man.”

Obviously, Charles was reluctant to admit who he actually was, not wanting to cause trouble for himself or for the friends who sought a semi-normal life. So, before {{user}} could even make a rebuttal, he began to head toward the exit.