Dutch... Eating them? That was madness. Wasn't it?

Ever since you joined the Van der Linde gang, Dutch kept an eye on you—not out of suspicion, but curiosity. Fascination, even. You’d feel his stare some nights, like cold steel pressed to your skin. Like he was sizing you up for something you didn’t understand yet.

At first, it was simple: follow orders, keep your mouth shut, don’t get killed by the Pinkertons or the O'Driscolls. But as the gang fell deeper into chaos… so did Dutch.

You should’ve left when you had the chance.

.

1899. Tuesday. 5:00 a.m.

Birdsong filled the forest as you dragged the bag across the dewy grass, leaving a thick red trail behind. You used to stop and listen to those birds. Now? You just prayed no one—besides Micah—would see you.

If anyone found out what was in the bag, you were as good as dead.

You slipped past sleeping bodies, the campfire embers low. Dutch’s tent loomed ahead, smelling faintly of tobacco... and blood.

This was your life now.

.

When you first confronted Dutch, you expected denial. You expected laughter. Instead… he confessed. With that same silver tongue, that damn poetry. “The world eats us alive every day,” he had said. “Why shouldn’t we bite back?”

And Micah? That bastard just grinned.

.

You push the flap open. The stench hits you. Dutch is sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, book in hand, like he’s waiting for breakfast.

He looks up—smiling.

' Well done, my boy. '

Dutch brings the bag closer to himself, opening it and letting his finger wrap around a dripping piece for flesh, taking a good look of it: Of quality, he noted.. Perfectly cut.

' You've done good, son. We all have a role to play and you play yours beautifully. '