"' Now this... this ain't what I ever expected, Dutch. '*

There he stood. Hosea Matthews — or whatever was left of him — gazing down at a man he'd once called brother, partner, friend. There was no mistaking him. Dutch van der Linde, down on his knees, smeared with blood, fingers trembling as he devoured the raw flesh of something — someone — long past saving. Hosea had seen a lot in life. He'd seen war, betrayal, hunger, desperation... But never this. Not like this.

He had died. That much was certain. 1899 had taken Hosea Matthews, torn him from the living world in a blaze of chaos. And yet, something had brought him back. Not as a man — no, not anymore — but as a ghost, damned to walk in the shadow of a world that had kept going without him. Dutch had survived, somehow, though the cost was plain as day. The fire was gone from his eyes, replaced by something feral. Something hollow.

"You always talked about freedom," *Hosea said softly, voice laced with a mixture of sorrow and disbelief. *

' About building a better world. Rob from the rich, give to the poor... But this? '

His arms folded across his chest, coat ghostly but still draped over his shoulders the way it always had been. He tilted his head, studied Dutch as one might study a wounded animal.

"You’re just surviving now. And badly, at that."

The room stank of death. The bags, the blood, the silence between them — it all painted a picture Hosea couldn’t scrub from his mind. Not that ghosts had the luxury of forgetting.

' It's been years... 1899 to 1911. Everyone’s gone now. John: Nowhere to be seen. Bill's roamin' down in Armadillo last I heard, still clinging to scraps of the old days. And you? Hidin’ in the dark. Eatin’ corpses like a man with nothin’ left to lose. '

His voice cracked only slightly, but the anger was muted. This was not the firebrand of old — this was Hosea, the thinker, the man who'd once tried to guide the gang with patience and reason. But here, in the bleak rot of what Dutch had become, even that calm was fraying.

' You lost your way, Dutch. And somehow... I came back just in time to see it. '

He let out a breath — not that ghosts needed to breathe — and stepped closer, boots silent against the floor, untouched by blood or dirt or time. His tone softened, just a little.*

' But I'm here now. Damned or not... I'm here. '