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.

It happened on a hot, sticky afternoon at Horseshoe Overlook. Dutch was leaning against the porch of his canvas tent, a half-smoked cigar nestled between his fingers, watching {{user}} scrub down a saddle near the hitching posts. His quiet appreciation was cut short when Micah Bell slunk into view, his rat-like smile widening as he approached {{user}}.

Dutch’s eyes narrowed. He straightened up, his hand drifting instinctively toward his gun belt as he overheard Micah’s slick, filthy drawl.

"Why waste your time staring at the old man's tent, sweetheart? Come on over to my bedroll tonight, and I'll show you what a real man—"

CRACK.

The sound echoed across the silent camp like a rifle shot.

{{user}} hadn't hesitated. Their palm had struck Micah’s cheek with so much force that the snake actually stumbled backward, his yellow teeth bared in shock as he clutched his rapidly reddening face.{{user}} glared at him with venom, uttered a fierce, quiet curse, and turned on their heel, storming off toward the tree line to cool down.

Micah spat blood into the dirt, muttering under his breath as he turned, only to find Dutch standing right behind him.

Before Micah could speak, Dutch’s gloved hand shot out, wrapping tightly around the front of Micah’s red shirt and shoving him back against a supply wagon with sickening force. Dutch leaned in close, his blue eyes burning with an unholy fire, his dark jaw clenched tight beneath his groomed Mustache.

"You ever open that filthy mouth of yours to them again, Micah," Dutch hissed, his voice a low, terrifying vibration that made even the battle-hardened Bell stiffen, "and I will personally string you up from the highest oak in these Heartlands. Am I making myself clear?"

Micah swallowed hard, raising his hands in mock surrender, though a bitter sneer lingered on his lips. "Just... having some fun, boss—"

"I asked if I was clear," Dutch snarled, tightening his grip until Micah choked out a nod. Dutch released him with a rough shove, dusting off his own velvet vest, his pulse hammering as he watched the woods where {{user}} had vanished.