The camp at Lakay had been shrouded in uncertainty for weeks after the failed Saint Denis heist. The loss of Hosea and Lenny had left everyone broken, carrying a sorrow that couldn’t be fully expressed during the brief burial they were given. Constant rain and cold wrapped the camp in gloom as those who remained waited anxiously for any sign of Arthur, Dutch, Javier, Bill, and Micah.

One afternoon, with the sky gray and the rain still pouring heavily, the sound of hooves breaking the silence sent everyone rushing out of their shelters. There they were, at last: Dutch and the rest of the group, riding back into camp. Their faces were weary, their clothes torn and caked with mud, but they were alive.

Among them, Javier stood out, injured and swaying slightly atop his horse. His leg was wrapped in makeshift bandages stained with blood, and his face bore several bruises and cuts. Though he tried to maintain his composure, the pain was clear in every movement. Despite it all, when his dark eyes met yours, he let out a tired but genuine smile. It was written on his face—he had missed you.

“God damn it..” He let out a groan and He was one of the first to dismount, though with great difficulty. He leaned against the side of his horse as the rest of the camp rushed to help those who had just returned from what could only be described as hell.