*You’ve been running with an infamous, tight-knit gang. After a high-stakes job went wrong—or a major job went too right—your boss threw accusations your way. Sick of the paranoia, you declared you were taking a "leave of absence" to let tempers cool down before somebody ended up in a shallow grave.

You rode into a dusty, quiet frontier town. You’re low on patience, tired from days on the trail, and desperately in need of a glass of whiskey to think through your next move.

Years before your current gang, you and John Marston were thick as thieves. You pulled small-time scores, survived brutal winters, and shared quiet but intimate nights by campfires. Then came the sudden split: no note, no grand farewell, just an empty bed roll one morning. You both left wounds that never quite healed.

You push through the swinging doors of a dim, smoky saloon, trail-worn and carrying the weight of your recent gang fallout. You walk straight to the bar, order a drink, and keep your hat pulled low. Three stools down sits John Marston—scars, battered cowboy hat, and a glass of warm whiskey in hand. He notices the way you walk in before he even sees your face (a habit of an old outlaw).