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Every gang he handled brought him deeper into the city's shadows. Every victory brought him closer to Bronte, closer to controlling Saint Denis from behind the scenes. But it also drew eyes. Suspicion. Fear. And now… an assassination attempt. Someone was afraid of him. Someone powerful enough to hire a professional hitman. He needed to flush them out. And the best way to flush out a snake? Set fire near its den.
He guided Morgan toward the northern road, where the industrial grime slowly faded into the outskirts leading toward the richer districtsbas he head into the center of the town.
He was heading back toward the Bastille, to get some rest after a pretty tiring day. He couldn't help but marvel at how the city was shifting right before his eyes. Saint Denis felt… different. Calmer in places it once wasn't. Tenser in others. And all of that was because of the changes he'd made. Changes no one else had been bold or foolish, enough to attempt.
Even if it had already earned him an assassination attempt, he didn't regret it. Not even a little.
He continued his ride for several minutes, the steady rhythm of Morgan's hooves echoing softly against the cobblestone streets. Saint Denis had a way of announcing its social divisions without a single spoken word.
As he passed deeper into the city's heart, the soot stained brick and iron scaffolding of the industrial quarters gradually gave way to wider boulevards, trimmed hedges, gas lamps polished to a mirror shine, and buildings whose façades boasted marble columns and ornate balconies.
Here, the middle and upper class of Saint Denis walked openly, unhurried and self assured. Well dressed men in tailored suits strolled with canes tucked under their arms.
Ladies in flowing dresses and feathered hats conversed in hushed, refined tones as they stepped down from carriages or crossed the streets beneath parasols. The clatter of carriage wheels and the soft murmur of polite conversation replaced the shouts and grime of the docks.
And as Caleb rode through them, heads turned.
Whispers followed.
"That's him…"
"McLaughlin…"
"The one from this morning…"
"He took them all down, didn't he?"
"Didn't even take a reward, they say…"
"Cleared out the Blackbridge Brothers like it was nothing…"
The name carried now. McLaughlin wasn't just a rumor anymore, it was a presence. A figure people recognized, discussed, argued over. The famous bounty hunter who had cleared the Bastille of hardened outlaws without asking for payment.
The man who had calmed a trembling young bartender who had just witnessed violence up close for the first time, speaking to him quietly, firmly, like someone who understood fear and knew how to pull others back from it.
Caleb caught eyes as he rode.
To those who met his gaze, he offered a nod. Sometimes just a slight dip of the head. Sometimes the barest lift of two fingers to the brim of his hat. Polite. Controlled. Familiar, but never arrogant.
Several men returned the gesture respectfully.
And more than a few women, particularly among the middle and upper classes, reacted very differently.
Blushes bloomed. Soft giggles followed. Whispers sharpened into excited murmurs. A few glanced back over their shoulders long after he'd passed, cheeks warm, lips curved in smiles they tried and failed to hide.
Caleb noticed. Of course he did.
He ignored it.
McLaughlin smiled faintly and kept riding.
When the Bastille finally came into view, it stood as proudly as ever, its lamps glowing warmly against the evening dark. But something was different.
Men were stationed around it.
They wore black suits, well tailored but practical. Black fedoras and bowler hats sat low over sharp, watchful eyes. Their hands were empty, resting casually at their sides or clasped behind their backs, but Caleb didn't need to see weapons to know they were armed.
He could tell by how they stood.
By the subtle tension in their shoulders. The way they positioned themselves at angles that covered entrances and lines of sight. The faint bulge beneath suit jackets, where revolvers or pistols rested in shoulder holsters or gun belts concealed by fabric.
Bronte's men.
Caleb's eyes narrowed slightly as he took it in.
So Bronte had decided to protect the Bastille more openly now.
It made sense.
The Bastille wasn't just one of Bronte's most profitable ventures in Saint Denis, it was one of his most valuable. Not just for the money it brought in, but for the information. Booze loosened tongues. Women loosened th inhibitions of men. And the combination of both ensured that wealthy patrons spoke far more freely than they ever intended.
They always did. About business, politics, grudges, deals they thought were secret. Secrets flowed through the Bastille like liquor.
Business dealings. Political favors. Affairs. Grievances. Ambitions.
All of it filtered through bartenders, working girls, and trusted ears, information that allowed Bronte to tighten his grip on Saint Denis even further. The rich remained beneath his thumb not because he threatened them openly, but because he knew them too well to ever need to.
Caleb slowed Morgan, swung down smoothly from the saddle, and hitched her at the post out front. He gave her neck a brief pat, murmuring low enough that only she could hear, before turning toward the entrance.
One of the men in black glanced his way, recognition flashing in his eyes. Another gave a slight nod.
They didn't stop him.
They wouldn't.
Caleb stepped inside the Bastille.
The interior had returned to normal.
The bodies of the Blackbridge Brothers were gone. Every last one of them. The blood had been scrubbed away, though faint discolorations still clung stubbornly to certain boards if you knew where to look. Chairs and tables that had been overturned during the chaos were back in place, arranged neatly, as if nothing had ever happened.
Music drifted softly through the air. Laughter followed. Glasses clinked.
Upper class patrons, men and women alike, broke into cheers when they saw him enter.
"McLaughlin!"
"Here he is!"
"To the savior of the Bastille!"
Applause rippled through the saloon. Several men stood, raising glasses in salute. Working girls clustered closer, smiling brightly, some bold enough to reach out as he passed, hands brushing his arm, his shoulder, his back. A few whispered promises. Others laughed softly, eyes shining.
Caleb smiled and kept walking.
He accepted pats on the back with a nod. Shrugged off wandering hands without irritation or interest. He was polite. Distant. McLaughlin, the professional.
He didn't linger.
Instead, he made for the stairs and climbed them two at a time, boots quiet against the wood. When he reached his room, he entered, locked the door behind him, and finally let his shoulders relax.
The day caught up to him all at once.
He stripped down to essentials, set his gear in its usual places, and lay back on the bed. The city hummed faintly beyond the walls. Voices below blurred into noise. His mind replayed the shot that had nearly taken his head earlier.
Then, slowly, inevitably, he slept.
He didn't know how long he'd been out.
Minutes. Hours.
Time meant nothing when instinct screamed.
A creak.
Soft, but wrong.
Caleb's eyes snapped open.
The door to his balcony, the one he always locked, shifted inward with a faint groan of wood. The night air slipped into the room, cool and carrying distant city smells.
Footsteps followed.
More than one set.
Caleb remained perfectly still, his breathing steady, his body relaxed as though he were still asleep. His senses sharpened, every detail flooding in with clarity.
Whispers.
"…should have a pretty good amount of money…"
"…check the satchel and the chest first…"
"…don't make any noise…"
"…we're here to rob him, not die…"
"…can't take on McLaughlin, not with what they say about him… guns, fists, all of it…"
Caleb's lips curved into a slow, silent sneer.
Too late.
His Perception had caught them the instant the lock was tampered with. Every sound, every breath, every shift of weight registered clearly in his mind. He remained perfectly still, breathing even, letting them think him asleep.
He let them rummage.
They went through his satchel first, hands shaking with excitement when they found the money. Thousands of dollars. More than they'd ever expected.
"That's it… that's it right there…"
"Hell, we're rich…"
"Grab it all—"
That was the moment.
Caleb moved.
He rose without a sound, every motion controlled by practiced Sneaking Skill. In two steps, he was behind them.
He grabbed the first man, spun him, and drove a punch into his jaw so hard it snapped the man's head sideways. The robber crumpled instantly, unconscious before he hit the floor.
The second robber yelped, shock flooding his face as he turned and swung wildly.
Caleb dodged.
A brutal punch slammed into the man's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping.
An elbow came down hard on the back of his head.
The man dropped like a sack of grain.
Silence returned to the room.
Caleb exhaled slowly.
He retrieved his lasso, tied both men efficiently, securing wrists and ankles, then dragged them out of the way. He gathered his scattered money, slipping it back into his satchel where it belonged.
Then he searched them.
A few coins. A cheap watch. A small revolver with worn grips. and a folded note listing addresses. Nothing impressive, but enough to confirm they were amateurs. Desperate or stupid.
Probably both.
Caleb straightened, his gaze lingering on the open balcony door for a long moment.
The night beyond it was calm. Too calm. The distant hum of Saint Denis drifted up from the streets below, carriages, laughter, the occasional shout, but none of it reached the room with any urgency. Whoever these two men were, they hadn't been sent by anyone important. No coordination. No backup. No signal waiting in the dark.
Just desperate fools.
Caleb crossed the room and closed the balcony door carefully, ensuring the latch slid back into place with a solid, reassuring click. He checked the lock twice, then drew the curtains shut, sealing the room away from the night. Only then did he turn back inside.
He reached for the table lamp beside his bed and lit it.
Warm light filled the room, pushing back the shadows and illuminating every corner. The two unconscious robbers lay on the floor where he'd left them, bound securely with his lasso. Their chests rose and fell steadily. Alive. Breathing. Helpless.
Caleb sat down on the edge of the bed, posture relaxed, hands resting loosely on his thighs. He looked at them not with anger, but with calm consideration, like a man evaluating tools rather than enemies.
He decided to wait.
If he wanted information, panic wouldn't help him. Fear, on the other hand, would.
Minutes stretched into silence. The lamp burned steadily. The sounds of the saloon below faded as the night deepened. Caleb didn't move. He didn't fidget. He simply waited, eyes occasionally flicking to the men on the floor, his mind already mapping possibilities.
Pawn pieces.
Every city had them. People desperate enough to do foolish things, unnoticed enough to move through cracks others couldn't. Saint Denis's underworld thrived on them, thieves, runners, whispers, beggars who heard more than anyone suspected.
These two could be useful.
If handled correctly.
An hour passed.
Caleb knew because his internal sense of time, sharpened by experience and something more, told him so. One of the robbers stirred. It started with a groan. A slow shift of weight. Fingers twitching uselessly against rope. The man's eyelids fluttered, confusion clouding his expression as consciousness crept back in.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,787 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,142 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -