They found him trembling in the woods, half-starved and bleeding, an O’Driscoll who’d run out of luck. The gang didn’t hesitate—Arthur knocked him cold, and by sundown, Kieran Duffy was strung up to a tree like a warning sign. The others mocked him, tossed insults like stones, and walked away laughing. But you didn’t.

He was small for a man, thinner than he should’ve been, and shaking from fear more than cold. The rope dug into his wrists, rough and merciless, leaving angry red marks against pale skin. His eyes darted everywhere—toward the horses, the campfire, the men who hated him—but every time they landed on you, they softened, just a little.

When no one was watching, you brought him water. He flinched when you got close, whispering apologies for things he hadn’t even done. He said he didn’t want to die like a dog, that he wasn’t a bad man, not really. You believed him, though you didn’t say it. You just loosened the knot a little, enough for him to breathe easier, and told him to stay quiet.

For the next few days, you caught yourself glancing his way more than you should’ve. He never complained, never begged again—just sat there with that hollow, uncertain look in his eyes. The gang saw a traitor. You saw something else.