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...
He leaned his head against the wooden panel, eyes half lidded. He knew the truth, Bronte wasn't just some charming Italian don. He was a spider at the center of Saint Denis' web, and Caleb had just stepped right into his silk threads. And yet… Caleb couldn't help but smirk. "In the game," he mused, "Bronte got nerfed."
He could see it now, clearer than ever, the version of Bronte from the game was a shadow of this man. The in game Bronte was clever, yes, but not enough to see through Dutch's arrogance, not enough to anticipate to be outsmarted and ultimately devoured by alligators by the Van der Linde gang.
The Angelo Bronte he had just spent the evening with was a formidable, sharp, and deeply cunning individual. His control was absolute, his perception seemingly omniscient within his domain. He carried himself with the quiet, unshakable confidence of a man who has won every game he's ever played. In the world Caleb now inhabited, Bronte wouldn't have been fooled so easily.
This Bronte, the one he had just broken bread with, would never have fallen for Dutch van der Linde's clumsy bluster and obvious lies. This man interacted with snakes every day, he would have smelled Dutch's particular brand of venom a mile away.
It was a disconnect he could only attribute to the inherent simplification of a narrative designed for a game. In no way would someone like him wouldn't realize what kind of guy Dutch is, Caleb mused, watching a pair of drunken workers stumble past the carriage window.
Bronte dealt with charismatic frauds and ideological blowhards constantly. Dutch would have been just another specimen in his zoo, not a genuine threat. The game had, for the sake of its own story, nerfed Bronte's ruthlessness and intelligence when facing the gang, or perhaps had him fatally underestimate them due to their "hillbilly" appearance.
But he can understand it, Caleb conceded with a mental shrug. It was for a game after all in the end. Here, in this living, breathing world, there were no such plot shields. Bronte was at the peak of his power, and Caleb was walking a razor's edge right into his inner circle.
As Caleb was lost in thought, a faint ding sounded in the air.
A familiar, crystalline chime.
His eyes flicked open. "System notification?" he muttered, materializing the faintly glowing interface before him. The translucent blue screen hovered silently, lines of gold text forming before his eyes.
He leaned forward as the notification fully loaded.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Congratulations, Host! You have successfully completed the task "Infiltrate Angelo Bronte's Inner Circle."
Rewards Granted:
[ Italian Language Proficiency (Lvl Max) - Acquired. ]
[ Chinese Language Proficiency (Lvl Max) - Acquired. ]
[ Drugs Resistance (Lvl Max) - Acquired. ]
[ Acting Skill - Level 3 → Level 4 ]
[ Synergy Detected: German Language Proficiency (Lvl Max) + Italian Language Proficiency (Lvl Max) + Chinese Language Proficiency (Lvl Max) = Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl Max) - Acquired. ]
Caleb's eyes widened slightly, then he exhaled through his nose in a satisfied laugh. "Not bad, system. Not bad at all."
The language skills were an immense boon. Italian would be crucial for navigating Bronte's world, for understanding the whispers between Guido and the other made men.
Chinese would give him an edge in the crowded marketplaces and back alley dealings of Saint Denis's other, equally formidable, immigrant communities.
To have them both, combined with his pre existing German, at a master level was a strategic advantage he hadn't even known he needed.
The upgrade to his Acting skill was equally welcome. Going from Level 3 to 4 meant his performance tonight, the calibrated respect, the subtle awe, the careful negotiation, was even more convincing than he'd thought. He was not just pretending, he was becoming the role.
But it was the final skill that made his blood run cold and his triumphant smile vanish.
Drugs Resistance (Lvl Max).
"Drugs Resistance?" he murmured under his breath. "Why the hell would I need that… unless—"
The answer clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The meal. The exquisite, rich food. The fine wine. Bronte's insistence on eating before business, his talk of "bad manners." It wasn't just tradition, it was a tactic. The thought turned his stomach. Had the sauce on the lasagna been laced with some opium derived concoction?
The wine fortified with some subtle, addictive substance? It was exactly the kind of long game, insidious control a man like Bronte would exert. Offer a man everything he wants, and then secretly chain him to you with an invisible need. A man addicted is a man obedient. Only through Bronte could he get his next fix, and in return, Bronte would own him completely.
"Son of a bitch…" Caleb muttered, his tone darkening. His face turned ashen. He had been cautious, but he hadn't been paranoid enough. He had assumed the primary threat was a bullet or a knife, not a poisoned delicacy. A cold fury began to simmer beneath his calm exterior.
'You clever, bastard,' he thought, a newfound respect for Bronte's villainy warring with the visceral urge to turn the carriage around and put a bullet between the man's eyes.
He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes narrowing. "Good thing I've got you, system," he said quietly. "Otherwise, I'd be another puppet at his table." Without it, he would have walked out of that manor none the wiser, already sinking his first hook into a dependency that would have made him a slave.
The experience was a brutal reminder. He could not afford to underestimate Bronte ever again. Every gesture, every gift, every meal would be a potential weapon. A quick glance at the interface confirmed that the toxin, whatever it had been, no longer affected him. His physiology had adapted.
He pocketed the 300 dollar, and with a mere thought, willed his entire cash fortune, the thick stack of bills and the bag of valuables, into his personal Inventory. It vanished from the physical world, stored in an extradimensional space only he could access. It was the safest bank in the world.
At that moment, the carriage slowed and came to a definitive stop. He peered out the window, they were back at the Bastille Saloon. The driver called out softly, "We're here, sir."
Caleb nodded, slipping a few coins into the man's hand. "Good work. Keep the change."
He stepped out, boots meeting the damp cobblestones with a soft thud. The Bastille loomed above, his temporary home, his base in this city of masks.
Pushing through the batwing doors, he was hit by a wall of noise and smoke. He moved through the crowd with a purpose, his demeanor discouraging any interaction. He took the stairs two at a time, the worn wood creaking under his weight, and swiftly unlocked the door to his rented room, locking it securely behind him.
The room was great, but a stark contrast to Bronte's manor. He removed his coat, hung it neatly on the stand, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He let out a long, slow breath, the events of the evening finally settling upon him. The deception, the offer, the near invisible trap he had only narrowly avoided.
The first phase of his Saint Denis plan was complete.
His plan was clear. He had gathered enough intelligence on Saint Denis and secured his initial position. The first phase of his Saint Denis plan was complete. Now it was time to touch base, to maintain the other threads of his life.
Tomorrow, he would go to the clothing stores, not the and buy several dresses for Mary-Beth. It was a promise. She deserved something beautiful after all. Maybe something light blue, or white lace, something that'd remind her of simpler days. It's also a reminder of who he was, or who he was trying to be, beneath all the acting.
His eyes softened slightly at the thought.
'Mary-Beth,' he mused. 'She's the one thing that still feels… normal.'
Then, he would return to Shady Belle. He needed to check on the gang, on Arthur, on Dutch. He needed to see how their own, more chaotic, plans were progressing. He was playing both sides now, a double agent in a war none of the other participants even knew they were fighting.
Tomorrow would bring a new day, new plans, new moves. For now, Caleb allowed himself the rare luxury of rest.
He closed his eyes, the faint hum of the city below lulling him into calm. But even as sleep began to take him, his mind whispered strategy. 'Bronte, Guido, Cornwall, Dutch… one by one, the pieces fall into place.'
The next morning, sunlight crept through the lace curtains of the Bastille Saloon, scattering golden flecks across the wooden floorboards. Caleb stirred slowly, stretching as his muscles loosened beneath the soft sheets. The faint hum of Saint Denis drifted through the window, the clatter of carriages, distant laughter, and conversations of people going to go do their business for the day.
He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before scanning the room. His revolvers rested on the nightstand, freshly cleaned. His repeater and shotgun leaned against the wall near the coat rack, next to his hat and coat. Everything was in its place. After checking his weapons, ammunition, and knife, he holstered them all with practiced precision.
He locked the door behind him and made his way downstairs. The morning crowd had already begun to gather, a few patrons nursing hangovers, a traveling salesman puffing on a cigar, and the steady hum of conversation beneath the smell of coffee and bourbon.
Behind the counter stood a different bartender from the one last night, polishing a glass with a white cloth. He looked up and smiled. "Morning, Mr. McLaughlin. You're up early."
Caleb returned the nod. "Morning. I'd like to take the outfit I asked to be washed a couple days ago."
"Of course, Mr. McLaughlin. Please wait a moment," the bartender replied, placing the glass aside before heading into the back room.
Caleb leaned on the counter, eyes wandering absently across the saloon. A piano in the corner stood silent this early, and dust motes danced in the sunlight slanting through the shutters.
Moments later, the bartender returned, neatly folded clothes in his hands. "Here you go, sir. Fresh and clean."
Caleb took the outfit, nodding his thanks. "Appreciate it. And I'll be returning the key to my room for now. Got some business out of town, a few days at most, a week at the longest. If anyone leaves a message for me, including the owner of this fine establishment, tell them I'll be back soon."
The bartender smiled politely, taking the brass key from his hand. "Understood, sir. I'll let them know."
Caleb tipped his hat. "Much obliged."
With that, he turned and walked toward the exit, moving through the morning crowd with the same calm confidence that always made space for him. As he stepped out into the crisp air, the familiar sound of horses and wagon wheels filled the street.
Without drawing attention, he willed the neatly folded clothes in his arm into his Inventory, the faint shimmer of the system flickered before vanishing, the outfit safely stored away where no thief could ever reach it. He adjusted his hat, boots crunching lightly on the cobblestones as he approached Morgan, who stood tied to the hitching post nearby.
The mare let out a soft snort as he approached, shifting her weight. "There you are, girl," Caleb murmured, patting her neck. "Hope you're ready to stretch those legs."
Morgan huffed in reply, and Caleb smirked before swinging into the saddle. He gave the reins a flick, guiding her through the morning bustle of Saint Denis. The city was awake now, children darted across the sidewalks, and steam hissed from the tram lines cutting through the streets.
It was a quick ride toward Harris Square, the heart of commerce and fashion in the city. When he arrived, he dismounted, hitched Morgan securely near the fountain, and made his way up the stone steps toward De Coursey & Co. The polished glass windows gleamed under the morning sun, displaying mannequins draped in fine silks and tailored suits.
As he stepped inside, the bell over the door chimed softly. The air smelled faintly of linen and perfume, a pleasant contrast to the grit of the streets outside.
Behind the counter, De Coursey himself was busy taking measurements for a young gentleman's waistcoat. When he heard the bell ring, he turned, and his expression brightened immediately.
"Ah, Mr. McLaughlin!" he said warmly, setting down his measuring tape. "You've returned! Word of your deeds has spread all across Saint Denis. I must say, sir, it's not every day this city sees someone stand up to the kinds of men you have. You've done us all a great service."
...
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 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 3) → (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,655 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 104,669 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 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
Bank: -