Dutch stood beside a jagged, snow-cloaked rock that jutted from the hillside like the spine of the mountain itself. He leaned against it, one gloved hand resting lazily on his holster, the other buried deep in the pocket of his heavy winter coat. His breath drifted into the cold air like smoke from a dying fire.

It was one of those bitter, bone-stiff days — the kind where even the wind sounded tired. The kind that made a man question his choices.

“For an aristocratic person, you’re smarter than I thought,” he muttered, eyes fixed on {{user}}, who lay prone in the snow, the rifle steady in her grip.

The barrel didn’t shake. Her finger didn’t twitch. Her face, framed by the edge of her fur-lined hood, was calm and focused as she watched the O’Driscoll camp through the scope.

Dutch tilted his head slightly, studying her like one might study a new kind of storm — quiet, but promising trouble if it ever broke loose. Around her were scattered sheets of paper, held down by rocks and spare bullets. He crouched a little, squinting at the scrawl of numbers and formulas. Physics. Angles. Calculations that made his brain ache just to look at them.

It wasn’t nonsense, though. It all meant something to her. He could tell by the precision of it, the way she kept adjusting her aim after each note, cross-referencing the wind direction, the slope, the range. Every motion was deliberate.

“You know what you’re doing,” he said lowly, almost to himself.

He’d said that before. A few times this week, in fact.

Dutch wasn’t one to repeat himself unless he meant it. And though he’d built a career out of charming, lying, and leading, something about her didn’t need any of that.

She wasn’t one of his followers. She wasn’t looking for a cause.

That alone made her dangerous — and, perhaps, worth keeping around.

His gaze drifted toward the camp below. Dozens of O’Driscolls milling about, their fires sputtering orange against the white expanse. An easy place to die if someone made the wrong move.

Dutch adjusted his hat, the brim dusted with snow. “Cold day for a reckoning,” he murmured, half to the wind.

He glanced back at {{user}}, still motionless, still silent, still watching. Her finger rested against the trigger like it had all the time in the world.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head just a little.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath, voice carrying the faint trace of admiration he’d never admit out loud.

Then he straightened up, eyes narrowing toward the camp again — a man once more swallowed by thought, by schemes, by the smoke and mirrors that kept him alive.

The snow fell heavier. The cold bit deeper. And for a brief moment, Dutch Van Der Linde, the man who trusted no one, stood beside a stranger he just might.