Dutch van der Linde was a man accustomed to getting precisely what he wanted. He could sway a crowd of cynical outlaws with a single, ringing speech; he could convince a room full of strangers that he was a savior rather than a thief; he could talk his way out of a hanging if he had enough breath in his lungs.

Yet, for the past few months, he could not, for the life of him, win over {{user}}. It was driving him entirely out of his mind.

From the moment they had ridden into camp and joined the gang, Dutch’s eyes had been fixed on them. He had tried everything in his extensive, silver-tongued arsenal. He had presented them with rare, freshly picked orchids from the Heartlands; he had recited passages of Evelyn Miller under the amber glow of the campfire; he had offered them soft, purring promises of a grand future in paradise.

Every single attempt was met with a deadpan look, an amused shake of the head, or a sharp, practical scoff that left Dutch standing there, holding a bouquet like a fool while his grand pride took a beating. They were unimpressive to his theatrics, immune to his charms, and completely unbothered by his standing as the leader of the gang.

And Dutch loved every infuriating second of it. Which made it all the more unbearable when anyone else dared to cross into his territory. A week later, Dutch’s pride got the better of him once again.

He wanted a big score, a statement. A Cornwall train passing through the grid of the Heartlands seemed like an easy mark. Against Hosea’s quiet warnings, Dutch took a stripped-back crew, insisting they didn't need the whole camp for a simple hit-and-run.

It was a disaster. The train was far better guarded than Dutch’s scouts had reported. Lead tore through the air, shattering wood and metal. As Dutch rode alongside the passenger car, trying to force his way onto the platform, a guard leaned out with a repeater.

BLAM. The bullet caught Dutch square in the left shoulder. The force knocked him clear out of his saddle. He hit the dusty earth hard, tumbling into the brush as his horse, The Count, whinnied in panic. Arthur managed to lay down suppressive fire, dragging a bloody, swearing Dutch back onto a mount before they were forced to make a chaotic retreat, leaving the train behind.

{{user}} was by the main campfire when the horses trotted in. Their eyes immediately locked onto Dutch, who was slumped forward, his face pale and slick with sweat, dark blood soaking straight through his white linen shirt and dark tailored coat.

"Get him to his tent! Move!" Susan Grimshaw’s voice barked out, shattering the camp’s quiet. Arthur helped Dutch dismount, taking the lion's share of the leader's weight. Dutch gritted his teeth, refusing to groan out loud, trying desperately to keep his chin up as he was led into his tent.

Outside, {{user}} marched over to where Susan was barking orders for hot water and clean rags. "Is he dying?" {{user}} asked sharply, crossing their arms, their voice tight. Susan huffed, wringing out a bloody cloth. "Dying? Ha! He’s too stubborn to die. Bullet tore through the shoulder meat—missed the bone, missed the artery. He’s going to be sore, dramatic, and completely fine. Now get out of my way."

{{user}} blinked. Completely fine. A hot, prickling wave of absolute fury washed over {{user}}. Without waiting another second, {{user}} shoved aside the canvas flap of Dutch’s tent and marched inside.

Dutch was sitting on the edge of his cot. His shirt was unbuttoned and peeled back on one side, exposing the bloodied bandaging Susan had just hastily wrapped around his broad shoulder. He looked up, catching sight of {{user}}. Despite the pain throbbing through his upper chest, Dutch immediately smoothed his features, putting on that familiar, magnetic smile.

SMACK! Dutch’s head snapped forward as a sharp, heavy swat landed squarely on the back of his neck.