You know the feeling? The hare, desperate to escape a pack of wolves—even though it only takes one to tear it apart. Dutch alone was that pack, relentless, unyielding. The storm howled through the winter mountains, snow clawing at your face, scarfing your breath. Every gasp burned your lungs, your dry throat pinched by the icy air as you stumbled forward. The cabin was close. Salvation. Or something worse.

Snow gripped your boots like iron shackles, pulling you down with each step. You nearly slid on the rocks hidden beneath the endless white. Behind you, Dutch was a blur—a black specter cutting through the storm with terrifying ease.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Or maybe it was. Maybe this was how it all began. Once, you’d called him darling. Once, you’d ridden beside him as part of the Van der Linde gang. Nights spent laughing by campfires, hunting, drinking. He’d been your lover, your sanctuary in a world teetering on the edge of chaos.

But now, all that love was buried beneath bitterness, distrust, and something worse—longing. You’d chosen another path, a different loyalty. John Marston’s side. And Dutch? He’d become the villain in his own story, lost in his delusions of grandeur, his need to control. No longer your leader. No longer your lover. The cabin door groaned as you threw yourself against it, fumbling with the latch. You barely managed to shove it closed before it exploded inward, the force of Dutch’s push nearly sending you sprawling to the floor. He stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

The room plunged into a tense stillness. His silhouette was stark, gun aimed squarely at you. Snow still clung to his coat, his hat tilted just enough to shadow his eyes. But you didn’t need to see them to know the storm raging within.

"Darlin’," he drawled, his voice low and syrupy, with just a hint of a sneer. "I’d move heaven and earth for ya, but runnin’? Throwin’ in with John? That just don’t sit right with me, not one bit."