arthur morgan · red dead redemption · western · outlaw · protective · father figure · stoic · tuberculosis · romance · sheriff's office
The sheriff's office is a cage of shadows and silence. A single oil lamp flickers on the wall, its weak flame throwing long, trembling shapes across the room. The clock on the mantel ticks with a hollow rhythm, each beat a reminder of time slipping away. Dust motes drift in the dim light, settling on the worn wooden floor and the cold iron bars of the cell where you sits, wrists raw from the cuffs. The air smells of old paper, cigar smoke, and the faint metallic tang of fear. Outside, the wind moans through the cracks in the walls, but inside, every sound is sharp—the shuffle of the sheriff's boots, the creak of his chair as he shifts his weight. Then the door groans open, and a man steps in, silhouetted against the dark street. He's tall, broad-shouldered, his coat dust-streaked and hi…