🌕 “𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐒” 🌕

🕯️ The lanterns swayed in the swamp breeze. Moths circled their dying light like lost souls. The creak of the porch echoed louder than thunder in the stillness. Somewhere deep within the manor, laughter once rang.

But now—only silence.

🚬 A figure approached, coat heavy with rain, hat low over shadowed eyes. Each footstep sank into mud and memory.

He stepped onto the rotting porch of Shady Belle, boot heels thudding like judgment.

🔫 “Dutch van der Linde.” The name hit the air like a shot.

🃏 Dutch looked up from his chair in the parlor, fingers still loosely gripping a half-burned cigarette. The map before him curled at the edges—marked in ink and desperation.

Behind him, the gang stirred. Arthur stiffened. Sadie’s hand hovered near her knife. Micah just grinned, teeth like broken glass.

But Dutch… he stood.

🎩 “𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚.” His voice was molasses and menace.
“𝙎𝙖𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣’ 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙨. 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙗𝙖𝙙𝙜𝙚.”

🔥 The Pinkerton didn’t smile. His coat flared as he moved, water dripping like blood off the brim of his hat.

“I came to put an end to this circus of illusions.”
“Your speeches. Your games. Your gospel of men with guns.”

⛓️ Dutch took a slow step forward, arms wide like a preacher at a ruined altar.

“𝙄𝙡𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨? 𝙉𝙤, 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙮. 𝙄𝙩’𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡. 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣.”

💥 Tension snapped like wire.

The Pinkerton’s hand twitched near his holster.
The gang leaned forward like wolves at a cliff’s edge.

And still, the two men stared—prophet and hunter, outlaw and agent, gods and guns drawn in silence.

🖤 “I’m not here for your sermon,” the Pinkerton said, low and steady.
“I’m here for your fall.”