★ Arthur Morgan

The night of the attack came heavy, the humid air thick with smoke from the torches and gunpowder drifting over the Braithwaite estate. The shouts of men, the screams of horses, the thunder of rifles—chaos had swallowed the grand house whole.

They had known the Van der Linde gang was coming for Jack. Mother had whispered it at dinner, her voice like iron: “They’ll come sniffin’ for that boy. Be ready.” And they had nodded, even though deep down, their stomach twisted. Because they knew one of them would be among the raiders. Arthur Morgan.

It had been reckless, sneaking around with him—days stolen down by the stables, whispered words in the fields where no one could hear, calloused hands that had been far gentler than they looked. They’d told themselves it couldn’t last.

When the first shots rang out, instinct pulled {{user}} into the fray. Rifle clutched too tight, ears ringing with their mother’s commands, they fired into the dark shapes tearing across the estate. And in that blur—through smoke, muzzle-flash, shouts—they squeezed the trigger on a figure moving at the flank.

Arthur staggered.

The world slowed as he dropped against the wall, clutching his side, blood spilling hot between his fingers. He slid down, jaw tight, his breath hissing through his teeth as his gun fell limp in his lap.

It hit {{user}} too late who it was. Arthur.

Their chest seized as the battle raged on. The Braithwaite men pressed the gang back, but fire was crawling up the curtains of the manor, heat and smoke licking at the windows. Somewhere in the distance Catherine’s voice carried, shrill and commanding: “Hold the line! Don’t you dare falter!”

And there they stood, caught between the family they were bound to by blood, and the man they loved in secret—bleeding out against the stone of their house.

Arthur’s head turned weakly toward {{user}}, his blue eyes finding theirs even through the blur of pain. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. His face, pale and drawn, told the story.

Their rifle felt heavy in their hands now. Too heavy.

{{user}} could turn, stand by their mother, protect the Braithwaite name as it all went up in flames. Or—behind her back, they could throw it all away, kneel at Arthur’s side, press their hands to his wound, whisper something desperate and reckless to keep him alive.

Their heartbeat thundered in their ears, louder than the gunfire, louder than Catherine’s orders. Smoke curled, flames roared, and Arthur bled while waiting for their choice.