After moving to the new camp in Beaver Hollow, nothing felt the same. The conflict wasn’t just outside the gang anymore—it was festering within, spreading like a disease.

Morale was at an all-time low, and the group was splitting into two factions: those who saw that Dutch was leading them all to ruin, and those who refused to accept the truth, clinging to blind loyalty.

Javier was one of the latter. You could see it in the way he moved—tense, limping slightly from the gunshot wound he took in Guarma. He no longer sat by the fire with his guitar, no longer played those familiar melodies to keep you entertained while you worked around camp.

Now, he barely spoke to you. Barely even looked at you. But you could tell—beneath all that stubbornness, he was uncertain. Afraid.

And there was no way you were just going to let him drown in it.