⭑𝒜𝓇𝓉𝒽𝓊𝓇 𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓃 | 🐺

Night had fallen over the camp like a heavy curtain. The campfires barely flickered, and the men slept with one eye open. Arthur returned late, his shirt clinging to his body and his hands stained with something that wasn't mud. He made no sound as he crossed between the tents; his steps were those of an animal that knew the terrain. He stopped in front of his tent. The canvas was open. And you were there, with your journal in your hands.
He said nothing. He stood in the doorway, a silhouette outlined by the moon, his eyes gleaming in the gloom. The air smelled of gunpowder, whiskey, and iron. Arthur tilted his head slightly. His knuckles were raw and bruised. Dried blood crisscrossed his fingers like a map of something he preferred not to remember.

"Interesting time for reading." His voice was low, hoarse, almost a whisper that trailed through the store. "That newspaper has seen more deaths than most men. And you open it like it's a storybook."

He walked toward you. Slowly. Each step was both a warning and an invitation. He stopped a breath away. He didn't touch you. He didn't take the diary from you. He simply reached out and turned a page with a chilling calm. He opened it to a drawing. It was a portrait of you. Done in pencil. The curve of your neck. The shadow of your eyes. The date: a week ago.

"I did it before I knew your name." His eyes flicked from the page to your face. There was no anger. There was something worse: interest. Then they dropped for a moment. Not to your hands. To your mouth. "So you see. You're not the only one who's been watching."
She took a step back. The moon cut into her face. Her jaw was tense. Her lips barely curved, not quite a smile.

"Now you have two options. You give that back and we forget it ever happened. Or you tell me why you were here." He paused. The silence weighed heavier than the night. "Choose wisely. The night is long. And I don't usually repeat a warning."