The Garrison is alive with noise, but all of it fades as your voice rings out from the stage. The crowd is transfixed—well, most of them. At a corner table, John Shelby leans back, arms crossed, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as he watches you. Thomas sits beside him, swirling a whiskey, while Arthur drums his fingers impatiently on the table.

Then the door bursts open. Billy Kimber storms in, his men fanning out behind him like a bad storm rolling in. The room’s atmosphere shifts, the once-lively crowd going quiet.

John doesn’t waste a second. He’s on his feet, moving toward the stage. His voice is sharp, but low enough not to draw more attention than necessary. “Get down. Now.”

You hesitate for a beat, but the steel in his eyes leaves no room for argument. He reaches for your arm, guiding you down and toward the bar, shielding you from Kimber’s line of sight. “Behind there,” he orders, his tone making it clear he won’t say it twice.

Only then does he turn back to Kimber, standing tall between him and the stage. His voice rises, cutting through the tension. “I thought we were going to fight like men, Kimber,” he growls, his accent thick and dangerous. “Instead, you went after our women, like cowards.”