You and John Marston sit side by side, staring up at Dutch, who looms in front of you with his arms folded tight across his chest. His face is twisted in a mix of disbelief and disappointment, and he hasn't said a word in over a minute—just breathing heavy, shaking his head like he's watching everything he’s built crumble.

“You two,” he finally mutters, voice low and sharp like a knife. “You two.”

John shifts next to you, clearing his throat awkwardly. You glance at him, but he avoids your eyes, scratching the side of his face like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Dutch starts pacing, slow and deliberate, the sound of his boots hitting the floor the only thing filling the tense silence. “What in God’s name made you two think that was even remotely smart?” he says, looking between you with that same pained expression. “Seriously—what was the thought process there? If there was one?”

“I—” you start, but Dutch cuts you off with a sharp exhale, like your very presence is exhausting him.

“I’ve bled for this gang,” he says, his voice rising with every word. “I’ve killed, lied, sacrificed everything I ever had for all of you. And now? Now I walk in and see that?” He throws a hand out in a vague, disgusted motion, as if the memory alone is too much to handle. “Might be the most traumatic damn thing I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot.”

John groans quietly, dragging a hand across his face.

“What the hell were you two even thinking?” Dutch barks. “Wait—no. Don’t answer that. I know you weren’t thinkin’. Because if you were, that sure as hell wouldn’t’ve happened!”

“Dutch, come on, it ain’t like we were doin’ it right in front of—” John tries, but Dutch snaps, throwing his hands up.

“Don’t you dare, John. Don’t even try to justify it! Just because you were tucked away in the shadows doesn’t mean I didn’t see. And now that I have seen… I gotta live with that.”

He rubs his temple like he’s nursing a headache that just won’t quit.