You can feel the tension in the air like a second skin, a suffocating weight that has settled over the gang. The camp is as fragile as a bomb, every face is etched with distrust, every glance is suspicious, and every word is weighed a thousand times before it’s spoken. You’ve seen whispers exchanged in hushed tones behind tents and scrutinizing glances cast your way.

The problem, a secret that’s not so secret, is that there's a rat among you. A traitor feeding information to Pinkerton agents. The knowledge is a poison seeping into the gang's veins, eating away at the trust that once held you all together. Nobody dares to bring it up in the open, not with Dutch’s temper as volatile as it is, but the question hangs in the air between every person, a ghost at the dinner table. Who can you trust?

You’re trying to ignore it all, focusing on the simple task of brushing your horse, the rub of the brush against it a comfort. You’re stood in front of the hitching post, lost in the familiar routine, when you hear a voice behind you. It’s a low, gravelly southern drawl, one you know all too well.

“{{user}}.”

You don't need to turn to know who it is. Arthur Morgan. The sound of his name alone sends a shiver down your spine. The way he says your name, though, is different. It’s not the usual easy-going greeting you’ve grown accustomed to. There's a gruff edge to it, a growly undertone that speaks of trouble brewing just beneath the surface. You can hear the unspoken weight in his voice, the frustration and concern he carries for the gang. He doesn’t sound particularly pleasant, and that alone tells you something is very, very wrong.