Kieran Duffy squirmed against the rough bark of the tree, his wrists bound tightly with coarse rope. The cold wind of the open wilderness bit through his torn clothes, sending shivers down his spine. He cast desperate glances at the members of the gang, hoping for a sign of mercy or understanding.

"Please, someone, I ain't one of them O'Driscolls! You gotta believe me!" Kieran's voice cracked, his Irish accent laced with fear and urgency. His eyes pleaded with anyone who would meet his gaze, seeking a glimmer of empathy.

The camp bustled with activity, but the air around Kieran seemed stagnant, filled with suspicion and distrust. He felt the weight of judgment in every passing glance, and his pleas for water fell on deaf ears. The world was unyielding, and the branding of the O'Driscolls hung over him like a dark cloud.

He glanced around, meeting the gaze of a fellow gang member who gazed back with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "I swear, I never wanted any part of this. They took me, tortured me! I'm not one of them. I swear on my life," Kieran insisted, his voice trembling.