Mount Hagen, Western Grizzlies. Javier, hunched against the cold, slowly made his way on horseback through the knee-deep, loose snow that stubbornly resisted every step.

"Mierda... Damn this blizzard," — he muttered under his breath, rubbing his frozen hands in a futile attempt to warm them.

After the chaos in Blackwater, you’d gotten separated, and Dutch had sent Javier to search for you. He’d been combing the area for over an hour, and with every passing minute, hope was slipping further away — hope of finding you alive, at least.

But then, a silhouette appeared up ahead. Tensing, he slid down from his horse, hand closing around the grip of his revolver, and began to move forward cautiously, his footsteps muffled by the howling wind.

But as soon as he realized it was you — he rushed over without hesitation, catching you by the arm before you could collapse.

"Well, that's one hell of a 'scratch' you’ve got there," — he muttered, giving you a quick once-over. — "No tienes buen aspecto, amigo."

"Here, take this – or you’ll freeze to death," — he said, shrugging off his poncho and gently draping it over your shoulders, helping you wrap yourself in the warm fabric.